Throwback Thursday

TBT: My Trouble With Stitches

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It’s been awhile since I’ve done a TBT post. So here goes.

I like to boast about my lack of trips to the emergency room growing up. I never broke a bone. ::knock on wood:: Never even sprained anything. ::again knock on wood:: (You better have knocked on wood after reading that. If you didn’t and I break something, I’m blaming you.)

There was only one thing that made me go to the hospital as a child: stitches. I always found a way to rupture my skin deep enough that a band-aid couldn’t help.

This Monday, there were two things I wanted to do when I got home from work: cook dinner and relax. Unfortunately, the universe had other plans for me. While my yummy crispy chicken was in the oven, I decided to do some dishes and dry them. I was drying a glass when it shattered in my hand almost severing a chunk of skin from my ring finger. (This is why I don’t clean. It’s dangerous!)

Quick side note about the glass: Yes it was a wine glass. To quote my friend Pam, “It’s the ones we love the most that hurt us the most.”

Everything after that happened pretty quickly. My bf took one look at the blood squirting from my finger and knew our night of relaxation had to be postponed. Three shots, several stitches and one immobile right hand later, I was home and in pain.

I am not one of those people who posts a photo of themselves on the beach less than a week ago and calls it a TBT. That story was just meant as a set up. I am very familiar with stitches. This wasn’t my first rodeo. However, I was able to go 26 years inbetween stitch sessions. Pretty impressive for someone who is as clumsy as I am.

When I was a kid, I made an art of getting stitches. It started before I was even one-years-old when I was first learning how to walk. My first trip to the ER happened when I was still doing the walking-like-a-penguin, need-to-hold-onto-everything-or-I’ll-fall thing.

Eleven-month-old Liz was wobbling along in the living room playing with a coaster. (I was a weird child. Coasters are fun!) I had one hand on the coffee table and the other holding a coaster. (I bet you sang that like Alanis. If you don’t know who Alanis is, I love you but you may be too young for my blog.) At this time in my life, I wasn’t ridden with anxiety yet, I was still a brave soul. So when I reached the end of the coffee table, I thought I could make it to the end table just a few feet away.

I couldn’t. The second my hand moved away from the safety of the coffee table, I went down. Down went my little body and down went my little mouth right into the coaster. Apparently, this coaster was made of steel because it ruptured the inside of my mouth.

That was just the beginning of cuts above my face. My second foray into stitches was a direct result of me being a little shit. My childhood home in Brooklyn had these brick steps on the stoop. They were very dangerous and my sisters and I were always told to be careful. We rarely listened. The stoop also had a railing that was incredibly fun to slide down.

I spent many hours climbing up and down this railing with no incident. At 5-years-old, it’s natural to think you’re invincible. Nothing can ever hurt you, until it does. That’s the only way to learn your lesson. And learn a lesson I did.

I was playing on the railing when my mom told me to get down before I get hurt. I made a face and kept right on climbing. Not even two seconds later, Bam! I fell head first onto the concrete. I actually remember parts of this myself and not just from retellings. When I first fell, I blacked out. I do remember randomly waking up on a hospital bed as a doctor was examining my head.

Once again, it was determined that stitches were necessary. I still have a small bald spot at my hairline reminding me that I’m a dumbass and should be more cautious.

My last adventure with stitches before this week was interesting. It happened when I was 6-years-old and I was sitting in the back seat of my uncle’s car. Apparently I thought I was a dog, so I had my head out the window. This was also around the time when I started morphing into my true clumsy self. As my head was out the window enjoying the breeze, my elbow leaned on the button to close the window. Not wanting to have my head chopped off, I pulled my head back in. I just wasn’t fast enough.

As my tiny head was making its way back into the safety of the car, my mouth got stuck. The car window closed on my bottom lip, almost ripping a corner of it completely off. (To this day, I am still not sure exactly how this happened. Nobody is.)

I sat in the backseat of my uncle’s car screaming my head off with blood pouring down my face. The screaming kept up for the next several hours. My dumbass at one point started shouting that I needed a bandaid. My lip was hanging off but I thought a simple bandage would fix it right up. Brilliant!

Having stitches on my face at 6-years-old was not fun. It was probably the first time I remember feeling self-conscious. So both my anxiety and confidence issues can be traced back to my stitches. And now I can add a fear of wine glasses to the list. Fun!

Do you have any TBT stitches stories?

TBT: I Was a Know-It-All Brat Even at 5-Years-Old

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This week’s Throwback Thursday is Christmas-themed. It tells the story of how each of the three Thompson sisters finally realized that there is no Santa and how it fits our individual personalities perfectly. (If you still believe in Santa, please stop reading now. I’m not here to break any hearts.)

do you believe in santa

In my last TBT, I briefly mentioned that my older sister was a bit of an animal when we were younger. She was definitely the problem child of the bunch. She was always breaking the rules. She found out that Santa isn’t real by doing what she did best: breaking the rules.

You gotta break the rules

Like every child on Christmas Eve, she was put to bed and told that she had to go to sleep or else Santa wouldn’t come drop off presents. My sister didn’t believe that Santa would be that much of a dick. What if a child had insomnia? Or woke up and really had to pee? Was Santa going to deny that child presents because of an overactive bladder?

My sister wasn’t buying it. She decided to sneak out of her bed to see if she could see the fat man in action. She saw something slightly different. She saw my mom putting the presents under the Christmas Tree and my dad eating the cookies we lovingly laid out for Santa.

But being the tough older sister that she is, she took it in stride. She was still getting the presents so it didn’t really matter to her. Presents trump your parents lying to you any day of the week.

I was one of those really smart kids growing up. I’m a shining example of why you shouldn’t constantly tell your child how smart they are. They need to be reminded that hard work is important as well. I was always effortlessly smart that when I entered the real world and noticed that there are a lot of other smart people out there, I couldn’t handle it. (Do you like how I’m blaming my hot mess of a life on the fact that I was told I was smart when I was little?)

I basically peaked in the second grade when I got a perfect score on my math Regents. It was all down hill from there. But back in Kindergarten, I was still a little Einstein.

I'm really smart

I believed in Santa for a little bit. We didn’t have a chimney but my parents told us all about Santa’s special key. Santa had a special key that allowed him to break and enter into anyone’s house who didn’t have a chimney. At 4-years-old this made perfect sense to me. Of course, Santa would have a special key that gets into every house. Of course, he can make it all around the world in 24-hours. Of course, a red-nosed reindeer would put aside years of abuse to help out his tormentors. I was getting presents. I didn’t question anything.

Then I entered Kindergarten and I started to learn a few things. I started to do the math and things just weren’t adding up. My older sister was an asshole most of the time but how come she never once got a bag of coal under the tree? How in the heck did Santa know not to go to my best friend’s house cause she was Jewish? There were way too many questions and not enough answers.

Finally, I let my parents know that the jig was up. I informed them that I knew Santa wasn’t real but it was all good. I’d still like the presents. I remember being out to dinner for Christmas Eve and the waitress talking to me about Christmas morning and Santa Claus. My parents probably weren’t too happy to realize that at 5-years-old their child was already turning into a bitter cynic. This waitress tried her hardest to convince my Grinch-heart that Santa was real. I just gave her a “Oh honey” shake of the head and said, “I know there’s no such thing as Santa Claus. You can’t convince me otherwise.” She probably just walked away and prayed she’d never have a child as annoying and bratty as myself.

Then there was my little sister. The baby. In many ways, she fits the description of the baby. She’s the one my sister and I always feel like we have to watch over. We’re always trying to help her get her life together. We’re like annoying mother hens but it’s out of love.

My little sister believed in Santa way longer than she probably should have. But being the baby, my parents allowed it. Once she stopped believing, there was no more pretending. She was in the fourth grade and still believing in Santa. Maybe this is just the bratty know-it-all in me, but I think by then you should have been able to figure out that flying around the world handing presents to children in 24 hours isn’t possible.

So my parents had no choice but to break the news to her. I guess they decided that they didn’t want her to be bullied for her beliefs. (Cause we all know kids are fucking assholes and would bully someone for believing in Santa.) They probably also didn’t want her to find out in some other more horrific way. They made the decision to let her know that Santa wasn’t real and they actually provided the presents for Christmas.

What did my little sister do? She simply chose not to believe my parents.

you sit on a throne of lies

Apparently a fat man in a red suit traveling the world on a flying sleigh was more believable than my parents buying us presents. She told my dad she didn’t believe him and come Christmas morning was so happy to see the presents that “Santa” left for her. I believe it took another two years before she finally gave up this “Santa is real” dream.

*For all my Christmas celebrating readers, how old were you when you stopped believing in Santa?

TBT: Don’t Ever Give Me a Pet Hamster

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This may come as a shock to some of you but there are times when I have no idea what in the world to write about on this blog. Considering how OFTEN I post on here, I’m sure this is incredibly shocking news. With the frequency of my posts, you’d think the ideas are flowing out of me day and night.

Since all of that was clearly sarcasm and I never post frequently on this blog, I’ve decided to change things up a bit by bringing you a new segment I like to call: Throwback Thursday.

I never actually participate in Throwback Thursday on social media. (#TBT for all you cool kids!) I went through an awkward stage from ages 5 to 25. No one wants to see pics of me when I was younger. But stories of a ridiculous childhood can be hilarious and make for fantastic blog posts. That’s why I bring to you the first in my Throwback Thursday series: My disastrous history with pet hamsters. emma watson pet hamster

Oh Emma Watson, I have never related to you so much before. I have had three pet hamsters in my lifetime and they have all died tragic deaths. One was murdered and the other two committed suicide.

I’m a horrible person and cannot actually remember the names of my pet hamsters. Maybe that’s why they killed themselves. They’d rather be dead than have me as their owner. Hamster #1 was the first one to kill himself.

I was good to Hamster #1. I played with him after school every day. He had a nice big cage with a wheel which was perfect for when he wanted to have fun and lose a little weight. He even got one of those clear plastic balls he could roll around the house in. This bastard had everything a little hamster could want but it just wasn’t good enough.

Hamster #1 loved his little hamster wheel. He would play it in at all hours. At least, I always thought he played on it cause he loved it. In reality, he was planning his escape. His escape from this world and the overzealous love of an eight-year-old enjoying their first pet. I woke up one morning to find Hamster #1 lying next to the hamster wheel with a broken neck. Over twenty years later and I still remember the look of fear on his dead face. I live with that image to this day.

My precious parents tried to convince me that he must have fallen off the hamster wheel while it was still turning and got stuck. But I knew better. This bastard was preparing for this all along. He trained on that hamster wheel we lovingly placed in his cage to see how fast he could go. Once he hit maximum speed, he dove head first into that metal hamster wheel of doom! No one will ever be able to convince me it happened any other way.

You’d think that after seeing one hamster murder itself, I’d be done. You’d think wrong. In fact, after that debacle, I got two more hamsters. I thought if only Hamster #1 had a friend maybe he wouldn’t have killed himself.

Enter Hamster #2 and Hamster #3. (I’m still an evil bastard who cannot remember their names.) And it was a horrible disaster from the very beginning. This was no match made in heaven. They absolutely hated one another. Apparently they thought their clear glass cage was a steel cage set for no-holds-barred fights. Several times we caught them in a bloody mess after fighting.

A normal family would have bought a second cage and called it day. Easy solution! I don’t have a normal family. Our solution? Take a giant textbook and place it in the middle of the cage to separate these wannabe MMA hamsters.

The textbook divider worked for a little bit, until it didn’t anymore. One night I was at my friend’s house getting ready to enjoy a sleepover when I got a devastating call from my father. Apparently someone, in their haste to separate the dueling monsters, smashed Hamster #2 with the book. I wish I were kidding. Someone in my family, someone that I trusted, murdered Hamster #2 in cold blood. To this day no one in my family has ever come clean but I think I know who it is. I bet it was my older sister. She’s my favorite person in the world now but when we were younger, she was pure evil. (Maybe I’ll tell you some horror stories of having an older sister in the next edition of TBT.)

So the murder of Hamster #2 goes down as one of the country’s greatest unsolved mysteries and it left me with just Hamster #3. You’d think that after witnessing her arch-nemesis being murdered, she’d be happy. You’d think she’d be dancing around like the munchkins singing “Ding Dong the witch is dead.” Apparently she wasn’t happy. Maybe she was angry that she wasn’t the one who got to do the killing.

So Hamster #3 becomes the second hamster I own to murder itself. I come home from school so excited to play with my one hamster that hasn’t tragically died yet, only to see her sound asleep in the corner of her cage. Being the nice pet owner that I am, I let her sleep. Several hours pass and I think either my hamster has turned into Rip Van Winkle or something is up.

I tap the glass and nothing happens. In my heart, I knew she was dead. That’s the fate of the hamsters in my world. But I wasn’t brave enough to find it out for myself. I call my dad over to investigate. He turns poor little Hamster #3 over and we find a wood chip buried deep inside her stomach. The wood chips I lovingly laid on the bottom of the cage so she’d have a comfy place to sleep were used as a weapon to kill. Once again my parents tried to convince me that this was all an accident. She was just trying to get comfortable when one of those killer wood chips plowed into her. Freak accident. But I knew better. One freak accident, maybe. But after three dead hamsters, I was done.

I didn’t get another hamster after that. I couldn’t do it. It was pretty obvious that I was cursed to live out the rest of my days hamster-less. Future children (if I ever have you) please never ask for a hamster. The answer is no cause I shudder to think what new ways these hamsters would find to commit suicide.