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a random story about pie and dancing.
I cut my finger slicing a honeydew melon today. It wasn’t a big cut but it bled. Shudder.
But it reminded me of other times that I have cut myself and I thought I would share one particular story with you today.
When I was about 13 or 14, there were 2 all ages dance clubs in Burlington. They were called Stars (now The Kingdom) and Club 404 (now defunct AND de-funked). When you live in the ‘burbs your social activities can be limited to house parties, bush parties, and standing in front of convenience stores waiting for something cool to happen. So having a dance club to go to was super cool.
I am not now, nor have I ever been much of a dancer. I’m clumsy and about as graceful as my bulldog Peaches (Note: Peaches sometimes walks into things and has rolled off the bed more than once.) But still, it was the place to be. The place where you could wear your Stephanie Kay-esque outfits that you bought at Le Chateau and your frosted pink lipstick. So I was very excited to go to this club when tragedy struck.
I was sneaking myself a slice of apple pie. For some reason, overzealousness perhaps, I had grabbed the knife (a Wilshire ‘Stay Sharp’ knife, thank you very much) before I had taken the pie out of the cupboard. And for another unknown reason I had the non knife-wielding hand resting against the cupboard door. In my infinite wisdom, I decided to open the cupboard door with my knife-wielding hand and ended up slicing the knuckle of the other hand. Not only was my stealth pie-stealing mission thwarted, I was now bleeding like a stuck pig–something I try to avoid.
I was trying to a) keep the panic to a minimum and b)covertly clean myself up before I got in trouble for stealing pie (as junk food was strictly rationed) when my mom came in a saw the mess. I needed stitches for sure but I wouldn’t hear of it. I had been stitched two other times and both were highly traumatic for me. But more to the point, I feared that a long wait in the ER would prevent me from going to the dance club. Mom and I had quite a row about it. Her logic was that I wouldn’t be able to go dancing with a gaping, bloody wound anyhow so I may as well suck it up and get it stitched. No frahkin’ way, I said. So I spent the next few hours crying and holding my finger above my heart to stop the bleeding.
Eventually it stopped and I did get to go to the club. But the funny thing is I don’t remember a single thing about going dancing that night.
And there you have it.
But it reminded me of other times that I have cut myself and I thought I would share one particular story with you today.
When I was about 13 or 14, there were 2 all ages dance clubs in Burlington. They were called Stars (now The Kingdom) and Club 404 (now defunct AND de-funked). When you live in the ‘burbs your social activities can be limited to house parties, bush parties, and standing in front of convenience stores waiting for something cool to happen. So having a dance club to go to was super cool.
I am not now, nor have I ever been much of a dancer. I’m clumsy and about as graceful as my bulldog Peaches (Note: Peaches sometimes walks into things and has rolled off the bed more than once.) But still, it was the place to be. The place where you could wear your Stephanie Kay-esque outfits that you bought at Le Chateau and your frosted pink lipstick. So I was very excited to go to this club when tragedy struck.
I was sneaking myself a slice of apple pie. For some reason, overzealousness perhaps, I had grabbed the knife (a Wilshire ‘Stay Sharp’ knife, thank you very much) before I had taken the pie out of the cupboard. And for another unknown reason I had the non knife-wielding hand resting against the cupboard door. In my infinite wisdom, I decided to open the cupboard door with my knife-wielding hand and ended up slicing the knuckle of the other hand. Not only was my stealth pie-stealing mission thwarted, I was now bleeding like a stuck pig–something I try to avoid.
I was trying to a) keep the panic to a minimum and b)covertly clean myself up before I got in trouble for stealing pie (as junk food was strictly rationed) when my mom came in a saw the mess. I needed stitches for sure but I wouldn’t hear of it. I had been stitched two other times and both were highly traumatic for me. But more to the point, I feared that a long wait in the ER would prevent me from going to the dance club. Mom and I had quite a row about it. Her logic was that I wouldn’t be able to go dancing with a gaping, bloody wound anyhow so I may as well suck it up and get it stitched. No frahkin’ way, I said. So I spent the next few hours crying and holding my finger above my heart to stop the bleeding.
Eventually it stopped and I did get to go to the club. But the funny thing is I don’t remember a single thing about going dancing that night.
And there you have it.
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