Saturday, June 6, 2009
This morning, my husband asked me to remove a splinter from his foot. He knows how I LOVE to get splinters out. (I'm quite serious about this. I find great satisfaction in removing splinters. I get excited when my children get splinters. Sick, I know.) His was right on the bottom of his foot - unfortunately not in a calloused area. So I found my choice tweezers (the kind with sharper edges, not those blunt ones - totally worthless), arranged the lighting, and set to work. Though the splinter was visible, there was nothing to grab onto, so I had to do some work with a needle. This is the part I particularly enjoy, although my victims--I mean, patients vehemently oppose this practice. Anyway, my big strong husband - who once shaved off the end of his finger with a wire cutter and wrapped it with electrical tape, who goes to work with broken ankles, and who slides into second base with shorts on - this man squirmed and yelped during the splinter removal process. We decided he wouldn't make a good prisoner of war. The enemy would have no trouble getting him to sing like a canary.