So, I got sent home from work. Apparently, throwing up in the office is okay, but standing at your desk and crying is frowned upon. 
And now, I go to bed. Yay.
I’m tapping my toe for the knife-wound story.
Regarding blood donations. I feel compelled to add that I voluntarily – when not gestating children or otherwise sustaining them through nursing – donate not just blood but platelets! It’s a time-consuming process, but it can be done much more frequently than blood donations and with much greater yield for the platelet-needers than separating them from whole blood. It’s called plateletpheresis, or pheresis for short. There’s been threads around here on it before and it’s a fabulous volunteer project, especially if you’re young and healthy and don’t have much to give besides what’s flowing through your veins. [chuckle, chuckle] Anyway-- give blood, those who can! And if you can give more, consider pheresis!
Sorry 'bout all the sickies 'round here. And I never look at post counts, but since y’all have been bragging about them, I did take a glance! I’ve been here longer than you whippersnappers! So respect yer elders, ya hear?
Parent of Pre-Teen Update – I seem to be seeing the results of Laying Down the Law and have noted more cooperation, less doorslamming and less eyerolling. There is a God!
All right, but two warnings: 1) it’s an unpleasant story, especially if you really want all the details. 2) despite warning 1, absolutely nobody is allowed to feel sorry for me, because I won. Three! Three warnings! 3) it’s too damn long for me to proofread.
This happened a few years ago, when I was a college student living in downtown Baltimore (or, for those Baltimorons on the board, on St. Paul St. in Mt. Vernon). I had a one-bedroom basement apartment in the rear of a rowhouse on a hill. The bedroom faced the alley in back of the building, but that was okay because I used the bedroom as a studio and slept in the living room.
Let’s see, it was summer, and it was Sunday morning. Sunday mornings in summer meant that I got up around 10 am, walked down to the farmer’s market for my weekly groceries, and got back home in time to listen to Prairie Home Companion. The farmer’s market in downtown Baltimore is one of the best I’ve ever seen. The produce is ripe, plentiful, and really, really cheap. I did a fair bit of canning that summer.
It’s also somewhat relavent to this story that living in downtown Baltimore just about drove me crazy with all the traffic noise. It was loud and constant, and I felt personally persecuted by it.
Last bit of backstory is my Ass-Kicking Boots, which I bought on a whim at a Sears’ after-Christmas sale becuase they were big, black, punky things that looked tough. A fair bit of my wardrobe in Baltimore was based on looking tough.
Anyway, I was coming back from the farmer’s market with a heavy canvas bag slung over my shoulder. I wanted to get as far away from traffic as possible and who doesn’t like looking into other people’s backyards? So I walked through the alley. Yes, I know, I walked through an alley in Baltimore. Mind you, it was 11 am on a sunny Sunday morning. Anyway, at some point a homeless-looking fellow saw me and starting talking to me. This was nothing unusual, and I thought I’d seen him around before. So we chatted and I waited for him to ask me for money. Just before we got to my block, he slipped behind me and put a knife to my throat. It was a silver, Leatherman-type thing. Anyway, so he directs me to behind a heating-oil tank in back of a house that was being rennovated. I give him all my money ($3) and my watch ($10, half-broken) and lie on my stomach while he goes through my produce searching for something more valuable. He emptied one of the plastic bags and tied it over my eyes. To the point that I was thinking at all, I thought that he would probably try to rape me, but I wouldn’t fight back until I knew for sure. I KNEW with a certainty that seemed to come from outside myself that I wouldn’t let him rape me, whatever the cost.
He turned me over onto my back and I felt him touch the fly of my jeans, which is when I started screaming and kicking. I knew I should scream “Fire!”, but I screamed “Rape!” anyway; there wasn’t a fucking fire - it was rape, dammit! Although I don’t remember it, I reached up with my left hand and tore off the plastic-bag blindford, which is how my hand got cut up. He took off right away. I grabbed my bag and wallet and ran home. I had alley-dirt all over my and I was literally dripping blood. First thing I did was run water over my hand and put lots of paper towels on it. While washing, I discovered that I was also bleeding from my right shoulder-blade. I called 911, told them to come 'round the alley, and greeted the medics when they arrived. “I think you should sit down,” one of them said. I did, and suddenly relaxed and realized that other people would take care of me, now.
The medics and police were wonderful. (One of the police even dropped by about a week later, just to see how I was doing and let me know that they’d increased patrols in the area.) The police followed the trail of blood back to where I’d been attacked, and the medics took me to a hospital that was a little farther away but had a well-known hand center. As they were assessing my wounds, one of the EMTs said that the stab wound in my back was about an inch deep. “Really?” I asked. “Well, a half to one inch, yeah,” he replied. I hadn’t felt the stab at all, and the wound didn’t (and never did) hurt. I had two cuts on my left hand: one across the top knuckle of my ring finger, and one that starts between my first finger and thumb and travels up and across my first finger. The one on my knuckle didn’t look as bad on the face of it, but it knicked a nerve bundle, so I lost some of the feeling in that fingertip. The other cut was the more severe, bleedy one. I was surprised to see how thick the layer of fat around my hand was, and I’m pretty sure I glimpsed the tendon. It was a VERY close call.
All-in-all, my Ass-Kicking Boots lived up to their name. The back wound is still a bit of a mystery; it was a clean, rectangular stab wound, and obviously he’d done it while I was lying on my stomach, but I was totally unaware of it at the time. I rather enjoy the thought of him stabbing me to make a point, and getting no reaction at all. I can also honestly say that I’ve been stabbed in the back by a back-stabbing sonofabitch. 
Glad to see your have your priorities straight, Puggy.
Rightfully so. gettin your nose broke is nothing to sneeze at.
This gettin old ain’t for sissies, I tells ya’.
BumbaWife went down south (~100mi.) to see her Mom and sisters yesterday. Wifeys cowgirl sister, who lives way out in the boonies in Eastern Orygun with a bunch of horses and cows and a busted up old cowboy came over the hill to see MIL, and Wifey wanted to visit with her too, so she went.
Anyway, cowgirl sister has a fully loaded ‘94 GMC Suburban she wants to sell for ~ $6,000 and wifey is thinking about it. She wants me to think about it too.
**
Pros:** It’s a big ol’ real estate wagon (Wifey’s a broker). she could get decals put in the rear windows sayin’ she’s a real estate person. (one of the brokers in her office did that and is getting a ton of new business. 'Course she (the other broker) bought a used Lincoln Navigator. The Suburban might not have the cache.)
It gets better mileage than the &^&#^#%^ '88 Ford Ranger XLT. No. Really.
Hi Scout!
I wouldn’t have to drive the &^&#^#%^ Ford Ranger XLT anymore and could possibly get my Mazda 626 back.
The Suburban weighs more than 6000 pounds, so we could write it off of our taxes.
It has air conditioning and a whole bunch of other creature comforts the &^&#^#%^ Ford Ranger doesn’t have.
It’s not a Ford.
**
Cons:** We don’t have $6,000.
I think we could borrow the money from the credit union.
HMMMmmmmmm <-----thinking mode.
Alright, having caught up with the rest of the thread, I demand to hear Bus Guy’s machete wound story. And speaking of stories, wasn’t Mika 'sposed to tell us what happened to those crazy Indians with the weird names we can’t remember? And isn’t there a new baby by now?
Heeeeeeeeeyyyyy! Ease back the throttle on the Ford dissin’ there, ol’ pal.
Maybe I’ve been lucky, but my Fords have treated me well.
I will continue with the next installment tonight! I stayed up late night before last, so last night I ended up taking a nap during movie-watching time.
mine, too - but then the only Fords I’ve ever owned were/are Tauruses
5’6"-ish, dressed like a 19 year old and pulling it off nicely, short red curly hair. Jami, except not blond, and not 18.
No way am I going to describe a high school girl to you in any way that’s at all lascivious!!!
TWO Wow. Your story beats hell out of mine!
I was in college, and one of the guys on our floor had a machete on his wall that we all assumed was ceremonial. One night, John, whose machete it was, was involved in a short, harmless fight off campus. Afterwards, he’s telling a group of us about it, and one of the other guys, grabbed the machete off the wal and said something about how John should have had this with him at the time…and waved it around without seeming to touch anything with it.
I never even felt the touch, but seconds later John’s face dropped and he ran to me with a towel as I was pouring blood from my left elbow.
We wrapped a few towels on me, and jumped in a friend’s truck to the ER. Turned out that the machete had severed some kind of secondary artery in my arm, I got some internal stitches to re-connect that, and some outside to seal the wound. It was a few weeks before I could bend my arm to my face without pain.
When they stitched me, they put me on a gurney on my stomach and held a mirror in front of me so I could see the doc working. He held up two separate pieces of my artery to show me the clean cut and I almost passed out.
We got back to the room and John had packed the machete away in the bottom of a box under his bed.
Yikes TWO! :eek: Thanks for sharing it. I hope it doesn’t bring back too many unpleasant memories. I have never had anything remotely close to something like that happen to me. I do indeed lead a charmed life, I think.
Rebo hope you’re feeling better soon. Is there something that can be done about the meds so they don’t make you so sick?
Bumba I’m bettin’ driving a Suburban will net a lot of real estate bidness for Den Mum. Of course I base this on the fact that I see an awful lot of Suburbans on the road around here, and they appear to be the vehicle of choice for soccer moms. I’m thinking these are the folks with young kiddies who will want bigger houses as the kiddies get older. There’s logic in that somewhere. Your challenge is to find it.
MBG, dang! Once again I say :eek: and believe I am leading a charmed life.
Ok, that, and I don’t let my friends play with knives in my presence. 
The only sensational knife story I have is where I pulled a knife on someone else.
I went to DC for a weeklong class a few years ago, and stayed in the heart of downtown (12th and H streets, or thereabouts). I was walking to dinner after class, and in the middle of a busy intersection walkway, a very tall homeless dude started aggressively panhandling me.
“No thank you”, sez I, and I started off for the other side of the street.
“I didn’t offer you anything, I want your money.” He started to reach for my left arm.
This was at a time when I was actively training in Tae Kwon Do, and very militantly a Second Amendment supporter (still the 2nd Amendment supporter, but I don’t preach it anymore). Having a gun in DC is a felony, and I knew it, but there’s no law that said I couldn’t have a knife. So, I had a pocket knife with a 4" blade and the little thumb studs that allowed me to open it as fast as a switchblade.
The knife was in my right hand, as I had it palmed whenever I was outside the hotel the class was located in. Right hand came up, and that blade magically appeared from nowhere.
“I think it’s a good idea that you don’t fuck with me”, sez I.
The homeless dude’s eyes went to the size of paper plates, and he sprinted away from me. I shook for half an hour or so.
Weird One, wow. :eek: Glad it worked out sort of OK, at least, and glad to see you here today.
two, that is one skeery story. I am glad you had your boots. I have heard that the best thing to do is make a lot of noise and fight. Seems liked that worked for you. Good!
I am picturing Bobbio walkin’ down the street snappin’ his fingers, singin’ “When you’re a Jet you’re a Jet all the way…” Hey, it makes my head happy so my sinuses hurt less.
Drae heaving at work will always get ya sent home around here. Matter of fact all somebody’s gotta do is merely mention nausea and I suggest they take the rest of the day off. Hope you feel better soon.
I…feel…sick…
It doesn’t bother me to tell it. I had to repeat the story several times that day for the police, hospital staff, friends and family, which was a pain in the ass. When people ask about my scars now (the one on my back is particularly noticable when I’m not wearing sleeves) I just sort of sum it up: a man with a knife attacked me; I kicked his ass. I’d figured on getting mugged at some point - most of my friends had already had been - and statistics being what they are, I’d always known there was a good chance of someone trying to rape me, too. So I wasn’t too surprised when it happened, and I quickly moved on, wiser and more aware of my surroundings.
I am crawling under the covers and praying for my mommy after reading about all those knives. <whimpers>
I am NOT covered in plaster dust at present–I am covered in mud. I decided to play outside today, since I feel consumptive in the house. The Swiffer is actually better at getting up the dust than mop and pail of soapy water (who knew?), so the dust is losing the battles and the war, now. Hallelujah.
Speaking of buses, #1 son’s bus went back to school yesterday, because the driver didn’t like the kids giving her “lip”. I don’t blame the driver, but I was beginning to think that my # 1 son was dead somewhere-it took that long. Screwed up our haircut appt, too.
Tomorrow, my daughter gets an award in French class–I’ll know more about the award once she has it (I am not quite clear on just what it is). I know she is being inducted into the French Honor Society. Alors! or however you say great in French (I dunno-I took Deutsch).
Glad to hear of the cleaner bill of health upthread, Bobbio. Hope our Rebo feels better soon.
Yikes. All of you are much braver than I am. I will not offer sympathy, I will just go hide.
Drae, your stupid bosses have no sense. Keeping someone there who’s been puking? Morons.
It’s hailing/pouring/thundering outside, and it’s pretty. I like hail and rain.
I’m kinda picturing bobbio doing his very best Dirty Harry impression. 
Guns aren’t much fun when they are pointed at you either…in broad daylight…in the Walmart parking lot on Hilton Head Island.
Dirty Harry never shook like an epileptic chihuahua after an encounter. I did… :eek: