white chicken enchiladas

As I sit down to type this post, a bright blue bandaid covers the tip of my left thumb.  One of those 'fingertip' bandages that didn't exist when I was a kid in constant need of taping up, but has since been the brain child of someone wishing to specialize in bandages for different body parts.  Have you ever used a fingertip bandage?  On first inspection, it looks like an instructional video might be a requirement to work it.  In the case of this particular first aid situation, we found that the bandages stick quite forcefully to themselves but not so well to the skin for which they are meant to protect.  And then there's the color. Puts the entire smurf race to shame.

This bandage went onto said thumb this afternoon when I arrived home from work, having left early.  Leaving early from work happened after an hour of trying to make the bleeding stop, paper towels stained with blood, hand held above the heart.  There was a definite increase in expletive use.  The f-bomb was dropped repeatedly, and the lord may need to change his name at this point, due to an overwhelming use of it in vain.  All of this happened after I succeeded in cutting the tip of my thumb off with a chef's knife while prepping food for my coworkers.

Part of the nail is gone.

Sigh...

So this day has been stressful.  What do I do when I'm stressed?  The same thing that millions of other women living in the developed world do when emotions run high, patience is in short supply, and somebody might get roundhouse kicked Chuck Norris style if I don't get something edible in the next 35 seconds.  I eat.  A lot.

say it

Anyone who's a true fan of The Simpsons most likely remembers the episode in season 5 where Mayor Quimby's nephew belittles the French waiter for his pronunciation of the word chowder.  Chowderre, the waiter says with a hefty roll of the r's.  Quimby loses it and demands through his howling laughter and Jersey accent that the Frenchy say it right, it's chyowdah.

I've become a huge fan of reenacting the scene. Cries of chyowdah have been escaping my lips on a fairly constant basis lately.  Sometimes it's random, like when riding the escalator at the movie theater and feeling the sudden urge to shake my fist and holler unexpected nonsense, and sometimes it's provoked by any mention or notice of the word chowder or the food itself.

Sorry to disappoint those of you who maintained faith in my maturity.