Unbagging the Cats 1

Unbagging the Cats 1

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

Drip, Drip, Dripping on my Cellar Floor

Please excuse my indelicacy this evening. If you are a certain follower, you might not want to read this one out loud to your wife while she is eating. Because my psychic powers tell me she would not be appreciative of my literary talents.

Who's in? Last chance to turn back. Like the tour guide warns you as you step foot into Marvel Cave at Silver Dollar City, you are going to spend an hour climbing up and down nearly six hundred steps. And if you can't make it, there will be a time lag before rescue workers can haul you out. Same here. Not the six hundred steps part. Or the hour. But if you ignore the warning and forge ahead, some trauma might occur for the weak among you. Still with me? Okay then. Let the bloodbath begin.

As I was sitting in the warm glow of my monitor last night, in my darkened basement office, I rubbed my forehead. Kind of kneaded it, in the sinus area above my eyes. Where it felt like I had a Neanderthal brow. A headache which did not depart until after a lunch of chicken nuggets, acetaminophen, and ibuprofen this morning at 10:53. As I was intent on relieving that throbbing, night-time annoyance, I felt a stray eyebrow strand. A single hair. Stubby. Just sprouted. Out of place. So I did what any woman with unaddressed grooming issues would do, and attempted to snag it with my thumbnail and fingernail to pluck it out. I can do that sometimes. First try.

Last night, it did not happen on the first try. Or the one-thousand-and-first try. But who's counting? Not me. Or I might have stopped after five hundred. I finally gave up. Threw in the non-existent towel. The errant sprig had bested me. But because I knew it was there, I felt compelled to touch it again. Just to see if I might have been mistaken. If, in fact, I had ripped it loose, and only a flake of dry skin was left. You know this isn't going to end well, don't you? You can still run back up those steps and into the light before we reach the heart of this deep cave of gouged flesh.

Still here? I tried to warn you. I reached up and felt a small lump above my eyebrow. What...? It was apparently my body's full complement of platelets, valiantly attempting to form a fibrous clot to end the blood loss that might require a neck tourniquet from the tour guide. IF only I had one there in my basement lair. My fondling of the site of the unsuccessful plucking endeavor dislodged the still-solidifying infant scab. Blood poured from the self-inflicted wound like summer-in-the-city water from an adolescent-sabotaged hydrant.

At first, I could not believe that my life force was leaving me at such an alarming rate. "Oh, I must have worked up a sweat during the kneading and picking stage. That's it. Brow sweat. 'Tis only sweat, and nothing more." I grabbed a tissue and dabbed. Twas much, much more than the glow of ladylike perspiration. I needed a little bucket like Vermonters hang on their maples to catch the sap. An oil-spill boom filled with hair clippings off the salon floor. A thirty-roll case of Bounty, the quicker picker-upper. A stuck pig had nothing on me.

Perhaps you've read Stephen King's Carrie. Ol' Steve is fond of mentioning the coppery smell of blood a plethora of times in a variety of stories. Who can forget the elevator and creepy twins of The Shining? Or those wacky undead who inhabited 'Salem's Lot, imbibing gallons upon gallons of the stuff like so much Sunny D. But my predicament lent itself to Carrie White's crowning moment. Without the thud of the bucket against Tommy Ross's head. I wonder if Mr. King ever had an errant eyebrow hair. Because he learned about that coppery smell somewhere. And I can vouch for the aroma.

Taking my lead from the natural world, I took it upon myself to lick my own wounds. To put some high-grade mom spit on my finger, and apply it liberally to the drowning nub. It took several applications. But the wound once again began to clot. Needless to say, though I will say it, because I'm all about superfluous blog posts, this incident did little to help my sinus headache.

I wonder...is a headache a harbinger of exsanguination?

6 comments:

Josh Hoyt said...

You wanted me to read this one I know you did. You egged me on and kept me in such anticipation how could I ever turn back. Owell I finished the journey and I can honestly say that I'm much well .... much something :) I'm glad it stopped bleeding though!

Stephen Hayes said...

I always leave the area when my wife plucks her eyebrows, and you've convinced me that this is not just a good idea but a necessary one. But I'm getting tired of being told that blood smells and tastes like copper. The pennies in my pocket don't smell and taste like blood.

Sioux said...

It's like I tell my third graders when they begin to whine and carry on about a tiny wound the size of a papercut that is well on its way to healing. I thoughtfully offer to use a rusty pair of scissors (saved for this very purpose) to hack off their OTHER arm or leg or hand. That way, they will forget about that horrible gaping wound, and can concentrate on a new pain.

("Summer in the city?" Are you the president of the John Sebastian fan club? Is that a paid position? If so, I want to compete for the job.)

Linda O'Connell said...

Your writing style is a hoot. Glad you got that little plucker.

Leenie said...

Come play with us. Come play with us FOREEVVVEERRRRRRRR.......

Val said...

Josh,
I'm glad I warned you not to read it to your wife. Wait until I write about rainbows and unicorns and puppies. I hear they are better for the digestive process. Not eating them, of course...

*************
Stephen,
I think you're safe when her eyebrows are in the hands of the tweezers. It's when they're in the hands of her HANDS that you need to worry. From my experience, anyway.

And something tells me you need to stop licking pennies.

*************
Sioux,
I'm sure you are the star of many a third-grade nightmare.

I am not the president of the John Sebastian fan club. Nor am I a member. Sounds like a lot of work. Work that might make the back of my neck dirty and gritty.

**************
Linda,
No skin off my nose! I can write up a hooter and pluck out an eyebrow that offends me in one fell swoop.

**************
Leenie,
Pass. I'm trying to cut down on forever playdates with creepy twins who hang out by bleeding elevators.