An Exciting Friday Evening

Last night, after a week of banging his head into things, rubbing it on other things, clawing and pawing at it, all to no avail, Bigfoot decided to try to force me to take the e-collar off of him. For upwards of thirty minutes, he lay in the hallway, emitting a noise which closely resembled the Emergency Broadcast System Tests, a high-pitched "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE" designed to get a human's attention and put her totally on edge. Bribing, cuddling, consoling, even yelling failed to still the canine transmitter, and I swear he only stopped because his ears finally hurt. I went to bed with my ears on fire.

Yay for Dr. Mark, who removed the Collar of Shame and the Vet Tape of Doom and then removed Bigfoot's stitches. Double yay for tech Adam, who cleaned said ear and the other one as well, both of them being absolutely disgusting after having been taped up for a week. Yay for Bigfoot for not growling or snapping at anybody, but not so yay for leaving presents on the vet hospital carpet runner. *turns the flaming red of a humiliated pet owner*

Yay for Laurel, for getting my check to me so quickly. Yay for me for writing a winning story. Yay for my Snicker for giving me carte blanche for my birthingday present. Yay for my fuzzy bud for writing a story that made me cry at work. Yay for the 9 or so people who all decided to message me on Yahoo at the same time--I feel so popular! *more blushing*

Anyway, the dog is fine, he's being an angel about not attacking his ear, I've had a nice dinner and now, in between chats, am going to fulfill my promise to write down three true shaving stories.

#1: When I was in high school, I had a conversation with my paternal aunt about the family tendency to dark hair, long dark eyelashes and pronounced eyebrows. While I agreed with her that it was nice not to wear mascara, I bemoaned the concept of plucking my eyebrows, particularly the hairs which, if left unchecked, would lead to a unibrow. My aunt confided in me that she simply shaved between her eyebrows. A few days later, I decided to try shaving instead of plucking. Mom had given me one of those old time, very heavy metal razors, where as you unscrew the handle, the top opens to allow you to drop in a double-sided blade, and then you screw it closed again. I put a fresh blade in, applied a teeny dab of shaving cream between my eyebrows, and whisked the razor down between my eyes, promptly removing approximately twelve to fifteen eyebrow hairs and the end of my nose. I told everyone I walked into a door.

#2: When I was living in my first house and my hours had been cut to part-time, I was doing my usual Sunday girlfest and shaving my legs in the shower. I turned slightly to rinse shaving cream off the razor and my foot slipped. As I tried frantically to regain my balance, knowing I was going to fall, only one thought went through my head. Not, "How badly am I going to hurt myself?" nor "Am I going to hurt myself?" but "SHIT! I can't afford to fall on the shower curtain and break the rod, I can't buy new ones!" I managed to hurl myself into a wall and escaped with a slight concussion and an intact bathroom.

#3: Same shower, a few years later, also on a Sunday. At some point during the shaving of the legs and armpits, I managed somehow to drag the blade side of the razor across my left breast. I did not notice this until I was bleeding profusely on a white bath towel. The SO of the moment, a pharmacy tech, was sweeter and more considerate of the injury to my left boob than he was to any other injury or illness I suffered. In fact, he supervised my use of an antibiotic analgesic cream like a true professional. :-p

These days, I try to avoid combining sharp blade-y things with hot water and soap. Thank heavens for Nair.