…or the leg, anyway.
Ellison quit smoking back in August, and makes it through the day with a vast number of toothpicks. We have agreed to a detente regarding toothpicks – or detritus thereof – around the house. It looks like a beaver has taken up residence in our living room. But she’s not smoking, so it’s a worthwhile tradeoff.
Until last night. After a long birthday dinner with her overly lubricated relations, I was relieved to slide into the car when
I found myself impaled on a toothpick, which had apparently been sitting on the passenger seat. The part where it stuck in my leg wasn’t nearly as bad as the part where I had to yank it back out. I’m particularly excited about having a puncture wound caused by something that spent significant time in the cesspool of the human mouth. At least it’s naturally antiseptic tea tree oil flavor.
This morning it’s only a little red and puffy, and doesn’t seem to be hot or oozing – two good things. And you know, I’m still tremendously proud.