Sorry I didn't update on Friday. It was the last day of Freshman registration, which meant we were busy all day long. According to my tally, I helped 135 students, took 60 phone calls, dealt with 2 angry parents and was called a racist once.
Today, however, it is snowing, which means nothing can dampen my mood. Despite crashing twice on my bicycle commute to work, the promise of watching a movie with hot cocoa and my hot boyfriend later means I will be in the best of moods all day. Snow also means that very few students are going to brave the weather and come into the office, so as a special snow day treat, I am going to tell you another story of my childhood.I have had two surgeries in my life, and both occurred within a month of each other.
Growing up, I would choke on just about everything: salad, pasta, meat, bread, crackers, cheese, and yes, even dog vomit. My parents always insisted that I slow down and chew my food. While they were completely correct, I was eating too fast, there was another reason behind my constant choking:I never noticed my tonsils were anything out of the ordinary, I just assumed I was as inept at eating as I was with every other normal, human activity. One day though, I got an extremely sore throat, and after a few days of whining and refusing to take Dimetapp, my mom took me to the ear nose and throat doctor. He looked at my throat and told my mom I needed my tonsils out right away.
A few weeks later, I not only got my tonsils removed, but my adenoids as well. I spent about a week strung out on coedine, then got back to school. I don't remember much about that week, but I remember having to watch the movie "Josie and the Pussycats" 6 or 7 times to pick up on the subtleties of the plot.
As far as my tonsils went, I wanted to keep them, but I guess they don't let you do that anymore. My mom said the doctor was gagging throughout the surgery because of how disgusting my cystic, enlarged tonsils were. Not only am I bad at being a human being, but my tonsils were bad at being tonsils.
I was a pretty stupid kid (if you are incredulous, click here). Unfortunately, even after puberty, I still had a knack to injure or partially maim myself. This is one such instance.
I was 13 and a half, and my sister was 15 and a half. When you're 15 and a half in Washington, you get your driver's permit, which is just another way of saying you get a license to kill. Anyway, on a lazy Sunday morning, mom and dad decided Kelly should get some more driving practice, so they were going to go to Costco. Mom asked me if I wanted to go, but I just wanted to stay home and read Harry Potter in bed because I'm awesome.
Pretty soon after they left, I decided it was a good idea to eat a little something. We had stale bread sitting around, and that's as good as anything for a sandwich. Especially because I was excited to eat bread again after my tonsil surgery. I hated Popsicles at this point, and I still do today.I suppose I should say before the action begins that my sister's friend Stevie was trying to make some money, so he started selling Cutco knives during the summer. My parents bought some, so we had many new, sharp knives around the house (you can probably see where this is going). I was using the nice, new serrated knife to get through the stale crust of the bread when disaster struck.I cut most of the way through my thumb, directly at the joint. After a bunch of running around the kitchen, I calmed down and ran my finger under water and called my parents. I don't think my dad understood anything I was saying, but he knew he needed to come home.
Recall that my sister was driving. My sister is an excellent driver, but anyone would have a hard time driving with your father yelling out new driving directions at you. I imagine the car ride went something like this:Meanwhile, at home, I had passed out on the floor, giving myself a black eye:
My parents soon came home to what looked like a scene out of "Freddy vs. Jason". Fingers don't look like it, but they bleed a lot.
They took me to the ER and I got taken care of. I cut the tendon cleanly in half, so I had to get surgery so I could bend my thumb again. Afterward, they put a pin down my thumb to keep me from bending it for the next 3 months, and that's how I got to get out of playing piano for the winter of my 8th grade year.
If this story wasn't entertaining enough, here's a picture of my mom with a 12 lb. steelhead she caught because she's a badass: