Yes, that is paint on the fixture and honestly I don't know if we did that when we were painting or if it was from the previous homeowners. That has absolutely nothing to do with the story. If you look a little closer in the upper middle part of the picture, this is what you see:
My son's latest obsession...sticky goo hands that you can thwack on the wall and it sticks there until you pull it off or it falls off. Our dentist's office gives these out as goodies when the kids are finished with their cleanings. I always look at the fixture with disdain, but this time a snicker and smile came instead. It looked just like an alien frog was crawling through from another dimension.
Why would a grown woman with children hate a light fixture? Has it gone out of style? Is it the wrong color? No! It bites and I will tell you how. Don't think less of me for my lack of grace. It was early in May 2006 and I only had 2 children. S had finished napping and was watching a show and G was napping. I had finished mowing the lawn and was rather gamey. I needed to get a shower before we went to church for the last Wednesday night activities of the year. Walking upstairs, I could hear G starting to stir so I knew time was of the essence. I went to take the grass and gasoline stained shirt I had off, hands over my head and, all of a sudden, blinding pain in my middle and index fingers on my right hand. I grab it and squeeze, look up and see blood drip off of the light fixture. Now, this light fixture was an accident waiting to happen. Basically made up of a rectangular sheet of tin, bent into the shape of a circle with a flat piece of glass laying to cover the bulbs. Sounds boring enough, except that the edge of this tin was razor sharp. It sliced right through those grass stained fingers like a hot knife through butter. I knew I needed to look at my injury to see how bad it was, but needed to put on the front of everything's okay in front of S. After rinsing the first layer of blood off, I realized it was pretty bad and so, in the throes of gushing blood, what did I think to do? Exactly right...try to take a bath so I didn't have to go dirty to the doctor's office. Honestly, what is wrong with me? I left a nice trail of blood across the bathroom floor and got in the tub, but not before I wrapped it tightly in a wet washcloth. It is not easy to scrub grass stain off with one hand, but it had to be done. I then realized that poor little S had gotten a washcloth and was wiping the blood trail off the floor. Well, after somehow getting myself washed and cleaned and dressed, I tried to think of who to call. I put the Brain in reserve since he works in OR. I called several people whose lines were busy or did not answer. So again, I did something less than bright. I called my friend Philip who was my personal trainer and told him I would not be making my appointment the next day. His response was more than appropriate. "Why are you calling me instead of getting you a#% to the doctor? Do you need me to take you...I'll need to cancel some appointments.". I was still under the illusion that it may not be that bad, so I declined his offer, took a little more deserved chastising and then rang off. I then called the person I should have called all along...one of my best friends who used to be a vet tech and is not bothered with gore. She said she'd be right over. I parked myself on the front porch with S beside me and Grace in her lap. What a picture, she came up the street, pulling the wagon with her daughter, G's age, and her trusty first aid kit. "Well, let's see it.". As I showed her she concluded that, yes indeed, I needed to go to the doctor. The Brain was then called and informed and then relatives were contacted to take the kids so we could headi down to the doc's office.
Now, I have a nice doctor. I love him very much, but he was not taking calls since it was the after hours clinic's turn to take calls. When I got there, I found out I would get to see my favorite doc of all time. After he looked at it then looked at me over his glasses and then repeated this process, he said, "What on earth were you doing?". "Well, I was getting ready to have a shower after mowing the lawn and we have low ceilings upstairs and I hit our avocado green light fixture circa 1967.". All of a sudden he burst into hysterical laughter, which then turned into snickers and finally he had enough control to say, "You said 'circa'!". And then we all started laughing again. Well, needless to say, I left there with one finger glued and one finger stitched up. Ouch. When I went back a few weeks later, I took him a picture of the light fixture and wrote "circa 1967" underneath. More laughter followed and the announcement that he may have to put the picture and story in his book on weird medical stories. How appropriate!
Why did I tell this story, I don't know. I knocked those fingers the other day. They will always have nerve damage and still feel weird. I just hope that the lone hand next to the light fixture did not come from a creature who suffered a similar fate. My favorite doc is no longer with the practice, so the experience just wouldn't be the same.
Watch your digits and you old light fixtures and take this as a cautionary tale, friends. Don't be a story in your doctor's book. That can never be good.
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