Goodness, Gracious! Great Balls of Fire!

I started the day off this morning by exploding my curling iron.

So really?  Things could only migrate upwards after that.

But yes.  I was busy twirling sections of my hair around the giant curling iron at 7:00 this morning, when, in a zap of suddenness, I felt like I’d been shocked!  I yelped in surprise and told Hubs, “I felt like I was electrocuted just now!”  And Hubs gave me the dead-pan stare which translates into, “You caught my attention with the word electrocuted, but unless you hurry up and add more to that brief statement and show me some signs of sizzlement or fire, you’re going to lose my focus completely.”

And, y’all, I had nothing for him.  It was just a quick sense that I’d been briefly zapped with a bit of electrical current, but I could find nothing wrong with my curling iron, and I decided that I had somehow just scratched my wrist against the cord.

You know, because scratching and electrocution feel so similar.

I gave up on the theory of being scratched completely when it happened a second time, four minutes later, and then!  Well then I was on a mission, and yes!  I found a section of the curling iron’s cord, where the rubbery coating had plum worn away, leaving a quarter-inch-long fragment of naked wires exposed to the elements and people’s wrists.  I showed it to Hubs, and he said (and I quote), “Don’t touch your hand to that part.”

Ya think?

I continued curling my hair, although I was a bit leery of the curling iron by that point, and I had to hold it rather awkwardly, so that it didn’t zap me again and put me into a full-out coma induced by electrocution.

And then, while Hubs was busy scrolling through his Pandora music selection on the iPad to bring up songs by Waylon Jennings so that he could make my morning even more miserable (because Waylon Jennings and the possibility of being electrocuted completely RUIN mornings, let me tell you), it happened.

A GIANT FIREBALL, PEOPLE!

It’s true!  A giant fireball shot out of the back of the my curling iron with a zapping sound that shook the house and flipped the breaker off.  The fireball burned itself out on my wrist, and my wrist TURNED BLACK!!

Black, people!  Black, like ash. My wrist looked like a log that had been in the campfire all night, while the Girl Scouts were busy roasting marshmallows and telling ghost stories to one another!

Naturally, I did what I do best in a situation like that.  I screamed and threw my curling iron across the bathroom, but it didn’t go far, because it was still plugged into the wall.

Hubs forgot all about torturing me with Waylon Jennings, and he laughed so hard he had to sit down.  While he was sitting on the edge of our tub, holding his sides as he threw his head back and hooted with amusement, I was hopping up and down on one foot, screaming, “I’m burned!  I’m burned!” Because yes!  I had a pile of black ash on my hand the size of a softball, and I knew that I had to get to the burn unit of a larger hospital, and quickly, so that skin grafts could start taking place, and so I could begin the long road of recovery and therapy, and I was pretty sure that I was going to faint from the pain if I didn’t get someone to start a morphine drip immediately.

I had my hand completely submerged under a stream of cold water, trying to keep the swelling down, when Hubs finally caught his breath and said, “You’re not burned, honey!  That black will wash right off with soap!  Happens to me all the time!”

Indeed, it did.

My wounds are simply wounds of the soul now, instead of the kind that manifest themselves physically and require a trip in the Flight for Life airplane to a burn unit and a year’s worth of hospitalization.

I may have had a Level 18 reaction to an event that barely registered as a Level 4 on the Scale of Horrors.  I have no idea why; it’s not like me to be overly dramatic about anything.

Later this morning, Hubs did say, “I’m glad the boy and I didn’t lose you to the curling iron this morning, because I’m well aware of the fact that if ANYONE COULD DIE FROM A CURLING IRON, it would be you.”

I’m still trying to decide if that was a compliment or not, people.

And while I was still trying to decide, I simply called Cody and said, “Let’s go get manicures at the salon.”

I felt like I needed to reward myself for staying alive this morning.

And I had to hit Wal-Mart for a new curling iron, because mine is toast.

It’s toast because there’s a hole in it the size of a quarter.  A hole where the cord used to be. On second thought, that might have been a Level 22 event, so I don’t think my reaction was uncalled for at all.  If anything, jumping up and down in the bathroom, screaming out, “I’m burned!  I’m burned!” was a bit of an UNDER-reaction.

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