Dittle My Finger

In the last group of Hodgepodge questions, I commented that "dittle" was my word for the day. Several people asked questions about the word in the comments, so I'm answering them here.

My daughter-in-law accidentally coined the word dittle when she meant to say ditto, and it came out wrong. Then she said that was her new word. It's an all-purpose word that can be used in any part if speech. It makes a great exclamation word:

"We went Christmas shopping today."
"Dittle! What'd you get me?"

It can also be used as a noun:

"If you're good you might get a dittle."

It's not technically a substitution for profanity, but feel free to use it that way if you must.

It can also be used as a verb:

"I really dittled my finger."

That last sentence was because of a mishap in the kitchen last week. My family, used to gourmet cooking as they are, requested hotdogs and canned chili for dinner one night. Being extremely competent with a can opener, I opened up the can of chili, bent the lid back out of the way and scrapped the contents into a pot.

Apparently that particular can was possessed because the lid suddenly developed a mind of its own. It bent forward and took a bite (a deep bite) out of my finger.

I don't usually have pictures, but I went all out for you here. Aren't you proud of me?

It's deeper and more painful than it looks. It's also my index finger (one of the most important, I would think) and it's on my left hand. I'm left-handed.

My family was relieved to know that I didn't get any blood in the chili.

I did get blood everywhere else. I knew it needed stitches, but I wasn't about to spend the next four hours sitting in an emergency room. No bandaid was up to the job, so we bandaged it with multiple paper towels folded down to size and taped around my finger.

I soaked through two of those makeshift bandages that evening. I finally stopped bleeding by morning, but anytime I bent my finger, the waterfall of gushing blood began again. That made it difficult to shower and dress for work, but I managed. I was quite proud of my ability to cope until it came time to put gel in my hair. Pressing the dispenser on the bottle started the bleeding up again. Since I didn't want streaks of blood in my hair, I was stuck.

This is where Indiana came to the rescue. I debated all other options, but finally I asked him if he would help me. I pumped gel into his hands, and he immediately assumed an expression of high-end stylist snobbery as he lightly worked his fingers through my hair.

His technique was so good it disturbed me.

Although he was a good sport about helping with my hair and even putting my earrings in, I knew better than to press my luck. By the next day I'd perfected my own finger-less strategies and was able to do without an assistant. 

A doctor friend took a look at my finger and agreed that yes, I should have had stitches, and no, it didn't look infected in spite of the swelling. She did point out that if I continued to bend my finger the wound would continue to break open. She suggested either using a splint or taping two fingers together so that it would stay straight and heal.

She did not tell me how to type or play the piano while in a splint. This could get interesting.

So there you have it. I dittled my finger and am going about my normal life, plus all my Christmas-related duties, with diminished capacity. My poor, swollen digit sticks straight up most of the time in a vain attempt to heal.

I guess I should be glad it's not my middle finger. Then I probably wouldn't need a dittle to express my opinion.

The One Where We All Screamed

This is a wolf spider. I minimized the picture because just looking at it freaked me out. Part of the the reason for that is because I don't like spiders. The other part of the reason is because this picture looks remarkably like the spider that was crawling on the wall in my home office the other night.

I was looking up something on the internet for some of my children when all of a sudden, this monster spider appeared near the ceiling. No one knows where it came from--a fact which disturbs me greatly--it just appeared.

My boys' reaction? "Whoa!"

My reaction? Screaming for my sons to come to my rescue.

One of them rolled up a newspaper, but it you splat something that big on the wall, what kind of a mess is it going to make? Can a newspaper even kill it? It was up over our heads on the wall, giving us a distinct disadvantage in attacking.

What if it jumped on our heads? Or worse. What if it grabbed the paper out of our hands and started beating us with it?

I say "we", but actually I was cowering in the corner.

My two oldest boys reluctantly moved forward to do battle with the monster spider. The three youngest (drawn out of bed by my screams) stood in the doorway and cheered their brothers on, all the while preparing to run if the creature got the upper hand. I continued to screech for them to get rid of it. Pandemonium hit a new level when the spider moved.

It was fast. Really fast.

Now it was on the wall above an armoire, and it was much more difficult to reach.

And closer to where I was sitting.

I moved almost as fast as the spider did. But in the opposite direction. Realizing that the battle must be fought, one of the boys threw a shoe at the spider, knocking it off the wall.

And down behind the furniture.

My son figured out of sight, out of mind, but I wasn't at all convinced. So my son asked me to finish looking up the information he needed while he searched for the spider. Two of them pushed and moved the heavy armoire away from the wall. I worked with one eye on the computer and one eye on the wall. The boys continued banging and moving generally stirring things up, almost dreading the thought of getting another look at the spider. In fact, they were so busy staring at the floor and getting behind the furniture that they didn't even see the spider again.

But I did. It suddenly skittered out from behind the armoire, once again high on the wall. And this time it was directly over me. With a bloodcurdling scream, I bolted for the door. The boys were all shouting as well, and into this wild scene walked my husband.

Indiana Jones threw us all disapproving looks for carrying on so about a spider. He did a doubletake when he actually saw the size of the spider. But then he walked into the room, grabbed a rolled up newspaper and killed the intruder. Then he disposed of it. Without a word he dumped the paper in the trash, gave us all a challenging glare and headed to bed. My hero.

I think it would have been better if he'd been wearing the hat and the whip.

Florence Nightengale, Where Are You?

Bandaids make it all better.

Thermometers can help your temperature.

Kisses and a cool cloth for your forehead.

That kind of nursing I get. I can do that. I've done it for all my children. Soothing words, a gentle stroke of the hair and Mommy makes it all better.

Unfortunately, recovering surgery patients need a little more than that.

Equally unfortunately, I have nothing else to give.

Oh, I try. But when my husband was in the hospital, I don't think I actually made things any easier. For one thing, there's not a lot of room to move around, and I'm not a model of grace. I stepped forward to help him, and drove the bedside table literally into the side of the bed. Then when I tried to move the bedside table out of the way, it kept getting stuck on something under the bed.

Terry asked me to raise his bed a little bit. I hit the wrong button and instead of raising his head, his feet when flying up in the air.

I took his hand to help raise him up, but I caught hold of his IV instead.

I gave him a pain pill and then held his cup so he could sip through the straw. But I tipped the cup the wrong way, and he couldn't get any liquid in order to swallow the pill.

I knocked his cup over and spilled ice all over his tray. And a little on him.

As I mourned my lack of ability to a friend, she assured me that Terry would still have a quick recovery. I felt relieved until she added, "If for no other reason than self-preservation."

I think I need a bigger bandaid.