So I come home from Third Tuesday last night and, realizing that a Bellini and a few nachos do not a dinner make1, I decide to cook some pizza. Now, since I lack a proper oven mitt2, I took the pizza out of the oven using a dish towel. A very thin dish towel. And when I discover3 that it’s rather hot and going to burn me through said dish towel, what do I do? I touch the damn cookie sheet with the index finger of my other hand, like as if I’m going to grab it with my bare hand because it’s too hot to hold with a dish towel. Ya, that’s right, skin directly on metal.
So now I have a burnt index finger to go with middle finger that I slammed the door on the day before. I think I may have burnt my fingerprint right off my finger. I’m now contemplating going on a crime spree in which I commit said crimes with only my left index finger, since they won’t be able to get any prints.
So, yes, now I have two, two ouchies! The Count would be proud.
In a tangentially related story, when we were little, my sister was afraid to go in the basement because she believed the Count, who she was afraid of, lived in the drier in the laundry room. Which is funny, because it would have made more sense to be afraid of those things that really did live in the basement.
1For the record, I was planning to get something to eat, but the people at 3T were too fascinating and I got all caught up in conversations and didn’t get around to actually ordering any food. 2Note to self: put “oven mitt” on Christmas wish list. 3I say “discover” like I really didn’t know that when taking a cookie sheet out of a 450 degree oven the cookie sheet is going to be, well, 450 degrees.