Jeremiah's School of Levitation
Upsy-Daisy!
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Cutup
I'm getting older, or knives are getting sharper. Knife sharpening technology has reached its zenith as my surehandedness has as slipped its zenith. I know this because we just got a new set of knives, like the Ginsu ones I used to see on TV. Except, Ginsu knives have edges like ball bearings compared to our new knives. Our new knives cut with a frightening efficiency and quickness. I can slice a carrot by just waving the knife edge about a centimeter above the carrot. I even think I hear the blade whistling as I move it. You think I'm kidding. I'm not. I may be exagerrating, but, I 'm NOT kidding.
It is all fine, though, for knives to commit cruelly precise acts of slicing upon carrots, but don't try washing the knives. And, don't be Jeremiah. I have hand-washed these knives a total of four times. My hands, as of today, have a total of FOUR new, clean, long, smiley faced-shaped slashes in them. Not a one of them even hurt. All I felt, as I was dutifully washing the blade, like I've hand-washed every single blade of every single knife I've washed in my 30 or so years of dishwashing, was the tell-tale "Slice of Uh-Oh", similar to how you feel when you get a paper cut, except, paper cuts kind of sting. The cut of the EvilSharpKnife is much more like a razor kiss.
I felt the slice, and, each time, I knew instantly what I did. And, each time, I reacted the same way. I winced, said a dirty word (twice, with feeling), and I looked at my finger, which, on first glance, looked just fine. Then, about two seconds later, blood rushed out of my skin like kids coming out of school when the final bell rings. I washed a few teaspoons of blood down the drain before I wrapped the finger and then band-aided it. And, of course, I picked up the blade to look at it, then to touch that evil edge, as if to make peace with it, and I shook my head, thinking, wow, if I had been washing this thing with any more vigor, or with any more martini in my system, I might now be thinking of new ways to type.
Hey, dummy!, you say, just stick them in the dishwasher! Yeah, tried that. Got a spanking from my wife. "Those are my best knives! Don't put them in the DISHWASHER!," she said, as if I had tried to put a toaster in the garbage disposal. We have this discussion a lot when I try to do stupid things like use the "wrong" washrag to wash my face ("Those are our DECORATIVE washrags! Don't wash with those!), or pour wine in the "wrong" wine glasses ("Those are my GOOD wine glasses! Don't drink out of those!").
So, anyway, here I sit, a cutup man. My wife suggested we just get rid of the knives, not because I've lost about a pint of perfectly good blood, but because the kids might get ahold of the knives, which would surely be a tragedy seeing that they've managed to end up in the emergency room only because of the unfortunate, strategic placing of silly putty, so a sharp knife might end up getting them taken from us.
I'll keep on washing them, but I'm going to try to be careful (this makes the fourth time I've told myself this). But, if those knives are actually out to get me, as I suspect they may be, then it is only a matter of time before I'll need to have a prosthetic middle finger. Which, actually, wouldn't be too bad, if I could get one about a foot long. Nose-picking and giving traffic "signals" would be much easier. When you get old like me, you'll take help in the form of anything.
It is all fine, though, for knives to commit cruelly precise acts of slicing upon carrots, but don't try washing the knives. And, don't be Jeremiah. I have hand-washed these knives a total of four times. My hands, as of today, have a total of FOUR new, clean, long, smiley faced-shaped slashes in them. Not a one of them even hurt. All I felt, as I was dutifully washing the blade, like I've hand-washed every single blade of every single knife I've washed in my 30 or so years of dishwashing, was the tell-tale "Slice of Uh-Oh", similar to how you feel when you get a paper cut, except, paper cuts kind of sting. The cut of the EvilSharpKnife is much more like a razor kiss.
I felt the slice, and, each time, I knew instantly what I did. And, each time, I reacted the same way. I winced, said a dirty word (twice, with feeling), and I looked at my finger, which, on first glance, looked just fine. Then, about two seconds later, blood rushed out of my skin like kids coming out of school when the final bell rings. I washed a few teaspoons of blood down the drain before I wrapped the finger and then band-aided it. And, of course, I picked up the blade to look at it, then to touch that evil edge, as if to make peace with it, and I shook my head, thinking, wow, if I had been washing this thing with any more vigor, or with any more martini in my system, I might now be thinking of new ways to type.
Hey, dummy!, you say, just stick them in the dishwasher! Yeah, tried that. Got a spanking from my wife. "Those are my best knives! Don't put them in the DISHWASHER!," she said, as if I had tried to put a toaster in the garbage disposal. We have this discussion a lot when I try to do stupid things like use the "wrong" washrag to wash my face ("Those are our DECORATIVE washrags! Don't wash with those!), or pour wine in the "wrong" wine glasses ("Those are my GOOD wine glasses! Don't drink out of those!").
So, anyway, here I sit, a cutup man. My wife suggested we just get rid of the knives, not because I've lost about a pint of perfectly good blood, but because the kids might get ahold of the knives, which would surely be a tragedy seeing that they've managed to end up in the emergency room only because of the unfortunate, strategic placing of silly putty, so a sharp knife might end up getting them taken from us.
I'll keep on washing them, but I'm going to try to be careful (this makes the fourth time I've told myself this). But, if those knives are actually out to get me, as I suspect they may be, then it is only a matter of time before I'll need to have a prosthetic middle finger. Which, actually, wouldn't be too bad, if I could get one about a foot long. Nose-picking and giving traffic "signals" would be much easier. When you get old like me, you'll take help in the form of anything.
Labels: self-mutilation
