True Confessions: My Dishwasher Stabbed Me

By: Martin SoulStealer

Under normal circumstances I would give an “Icky” alert to warn squeamish people before they read this post, but to be honest, the “icky” part of this post is very important as I am here on a humanitarian mission: to teach people about the dangers that lurk inside their dishwashers.

It was a cold day in early January.  The time: 6:43 AM. I know that because I had just nuked a cup of green tea, and the microwave clock was staring back at me.  I thought I would use these few free minutes to empty the dishwasher, a chore I have done countless times. But alas, I did not know that this time would scar me for life – literally. Okay, I am being dramatic, but I deserve a little dramatic effect.

As I did every morning, I reached into the cutlery bin. I pulled out two soup spoons, and my mind went to the great homemade minestrone I made the day before. It’s off topic, but if anyone wants the recipe, email me; it was good.  Anyway, I dropped one of the spoons, and it fell to the floor. I bent down to get that spoon. I should preface this action by saying, I am pretty much blind in my right eye, so anything that is on that side of my face, gets little notice.  So, when I bent down, I did not see the serrated Cutco knife resting blade up.  For the record, I love my serrated Cutco knife. It cuts through meat, veggies and apparently lips and face flesh pretty well.

At first, I didn’t think it really got me.  I was stunned at the first contact and pulled up quickly and well, that action sort of made the knife do a slashing move and well, suffice it to say there was blood. I saw that the dogs were looking at me sort of weird which made me rush to the bathroom mirror to survey the damage.  I admit it; I didn’t look pretty.  Honestly, at 6:45 in the morning, I usually don’t aspire to pretty anyway, but this entire gash that ran from my nose through my lip really put me low on the attractive scale.

As a grown woman who has raised a child and dogs and seen icky stuff before, I knew how to handle the situation.  I called my husband at work and said, “I’m dying. I’ve stabbed myself in the face! What do I do?”   Then, I hung up the phone.  Luckily, knowing me for almost 30 years, he knew to call me back before calling in the SWAT team. As my home phone was ringing, my email was pinging. Coincidentally, the email was my daughter messaging me to say she was at work. So, I emailed back, “Can’t talk now. Off to the new hospital. Knife slit my face open. I’ll check out the ER and let you know how it is.”

Now, they were both calling my cell and landline. Damn, I could not get ready as they  had all these questions and wanted to know if they should call 911.

“NO!” I insisted. “The house is a disaster. I am in my nightgown, and the dogs won’t like uniformed people coming into the house. I’ll go on my own. The hospital is right around the corner. I will drive there and be fine.”

So, I put gauze on the boo boo, changed into sweats and wet down my hair. Don’t judge me. The lip was bad enough. Add my morning hair to the whole bloody picture and I resembled an extra from Night of the Living Dead.

The new hospital was wonderful. I walked in to this spacious waiting room with big screen TVs, and the nice guy at the admission desk took one look at me, typed the words “blood and laceration” into his laptop, and two people came running out to meet me.  They escorted me back to a triage room where they weighed me with my clothes and coat on which is why I am doing Slim Fast now and said, “You will be fine. You will need stitches.”

Then they proceeded to ask me where my husband was and if he was the one holding the knife.  You know, it’s a good thing I like the guy because the night before he had ticked me off and if I wanted revenge, this was THE moment to get it.  After assuring them that my husband is a mild-mannered engineer, and not out to kill me, they numbed me up, stitched me up and sent me on my merry way.  A week later, my family doctor removed the sutures.  Is there a scar?  YES.  Upon relating the story, my friend Kara tried to tell me that scars are hot now.  I replied that they are hot if one rides a Harley. They are not hot on an aging Shirley Temple.   But in truth, I can live with whatever scar remains. I doubt that in a year or so there will be much evidence of the knife in the dishwasher incident.

So, the lessons learned from this tale:

1. Always do your hair before emptying the dishwasher because you never know if you will have to go to the hospital quickly. Some injuries cannot wait for hair styling.

2. It’s probably a good idea to always put the knives blade down in the dishwasher.

3. If you like your spouse, make sure he always has an alibi for knife attacks. ER people  like to ask a lot of questions, and the husband never comes out good.

4. If you have to go to the emergency room, wear light clothing, because worse than the injury and sutures were for me, is the fact that now I have to sip Slim Fast for another three weeks to get back to the weight I thought I was before the dishwasher stabbed me.

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12 thoughts on “True Confessions: My Dishwasher Stabbed Me”

  1. I am really glad to say that this is a problem my wife will never have to contend with. As our dish washer does not work whenever she is in the kitchen, the closest she get to this sort of thing is when I aim a cup at the back of her bonce (British slang for head) whenever she bitches about the pile of crap in the sink and how it’s about time I got off my duff and washed up. P.s. I am the dishwasher!

  2. You can keep reminding me about #2 but I’m still going to keep getting those damn scars!

    Ps/ I sure am glad you’re fine though!

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