[For the one that's seen it already; penance of a recipe at the end. -
TR]

Metaphorically, there were times that being thin-skinned helped me win
numerous debates. The verbal barbs tossed at my seemingly thick hide
and solid cranium would bring out the best (or worst) in my verbal
arsenal. There was also the thick, lamellar hide most males are born
with that protected me so honorably from physical harm, in particular
around my hands; those unsightly, scarred and bruised appendages that
grab, scrape, pinch, pull, tie, bind, and hold so much of what I do
daily. There are calluses and knots galore from years of woodworking,
engine-tinkering, and a hobbyist's love of gardening. Nothing short of
sawn-, rasped-, and sliced-through joints ever dug through the
weathered leather of my hands. Blood, mine in particular, rarely
stained shirt or jeans.

Yesterday I discovered much to my increasing dismay, my body-male
hurtled yet another milestone.

I have five bikes to help Clan Ranger move about the cement and
asphalt speedways of my 'burb when the Blue Bomber isn't needed. To
retain the floor space in my CACCC¹, I've put tire hooks into the
ceiling so as to suspend said bikes. These hooks are Space-Savers
Ideal; I truly hope the royalties being generated bring the inventor
his villa on his newly purchased island paradise.

I have lifted each bike from these hooks over 100 times; never once
worrying that one of their many sharp edges would poke, scrape, slice,
shred, or grate my hands. After all, I use these gams daily.

I lifted Daughter-unit Beta's 20 lb mountain bike up slightly, so its
front tire lifted over the hook's lip. Up. Just 1/4" more.

POP!

The sound was like Saran Wrap exploding in a microwave. It caused me
to set the bike back in its hook and look about. I looked to the
ceiling. Did I hit a fluorescent bulb? Nope. I looked at the floor
about my feet. Was there a single sheet of leftover bubble wrap? No.

There were several drops of red dotted about. And more were appearing
as I stood there.

That familiar sinking feeling of having done something to myself
without the Body Ranger alerting me to it flooded my being. I watched
another drop hit the floor as I suddenly felt it leave my finger tip.
A deep breath before the plunge, I silent oath ceiling-ward through
closed eyes, and I pulled my left hand level to my face.

Blood, more than I'd ever seen, ran freely down my palm, and off four
of my five fingers.

"Oh ferchris'sake!" The first wave of pain washed over me like an
unexpected wave from behind. "Whoa... That's gonna make things
interesting," I hissed.

I grabbed my wrist and walked over to the door leading into Castle
Ranger's kitchen leaving a blood trail the forensic team would love.
Blood quickly back flowed over my wrist and hand. As I reached for the
brass doorknob, the thought of how this would look should SWMBO² come
home without me present to explain...

My hand closed over the doorknob and I threw open the door, spraying
the floor, the door, and the wall. I sighed. "Clean-up; Aisle 1."

Both cats, munching contentedly on the plates of Cat Pate, looked up
as I entered. Neither move. "Oh, it's nice of you both to join the
living..." They turned like two teens being scolded and went back to
stuffing their furry faces.

I looked at them and wondered, briefly, whether I still had enough
blood left to use the spray bottle on them before passing out. I felt
another drop splatter on my toe. "You're both lucky I don't wanna
clean up more," I blustered.

I looked back at the entryway and saw a very clean trail of dark drops
and moved over to the sink. Elbow-assisted, I pushed the handle back
and water erupted from the faucet. A quick adjustment on temperature
since I didn't want to add 3rd degree burns to my list of ailments,
and I submerged my hand under the water to reveal just how much of my
stump I'd taken off.

Bill Cosby once said, "And the pain... Was tremendous." My lights
dimmed and changed to a red background, too.

"Oh! Chris'! What! Hell! Water? Lemon juice?!" I panted as the warm
water gently cascaded over my hand and arm rinsing the sticky cover
away.

As the dried blood thinned and washed away, I saw where on my palm the
blood was free-flowing. Skin flapped and wiggled like pork fat on a
hook. Blood, now watered down, flowed more quickly. My previous pain
was displaced with natural endorphins. I counted eight holes, evenly
spaced. "Hmm. This should be interesting. I don't think I have a
Band-Aid™ that large."

During my Serling-esque viewing, I saw a dishtowel and casually
wrapped it around my hand. Blood soaked through. I looked over at the
phone.

"Meow! Phsst!"

Two gray streaks blurred in opposite directions as their claws
scrambled and scraped the tiled floor.

I laughed and shook my head. The white dish towel was definitely
showing signs of having been used in triage. I moved off towards the
bathroom and my Tim Allen-inspired over-supply of Band-Aids, gauze and
tape.

No signs of either cat or spirit-based encounters gave me a brief
respite. I open the cabinet and had everything laid about on the
bathroom counter. I looked at the towel one last time. Gently, like an
actor lifting a gauze mask from his patient, I pulled back the towel.
My sticky hand revealed its damage.

Eight triangular flaps, 1/4" apart, marched across my palm. I'd
grabbed the sharp-and-pointy spines of the chain ring (those three
sprockets tied directly to the pedal crank). With the awkward weight
of the bike, eight spikes drove simultaneously into my palm -- which
explained the "pop."

I looked at the wild assortment of Band-Aids™. 3M Insect fought with
3M Princesses that fought with J&J Non-Ouch. I fingered through them
all quickly. Nothing larger than a two-inch strip... I moved over to
the gauze pads. Teflon™. Cotton. Triple-layer. Ah!

A quick rip and the square was set. Tearing off the tape was a little
more difficult but I managed. As I set the last strip across, I saw
the blot appear. Pain, more intense than previous, seared my palm. I
closed my eyes. I put together another bandage, removed the now-soaked
previous set, and added a good glob of Neosporin to the mix. Petroleum
products always worked wonders on stemming previous experiences with
personal bloodletting.

I sat down, tired.

A few minutes later I decided that I'd better get moving and finish
the task I started. Before I stood, I opened up my palm and looked at
it again. This one had more blotting. I set to making one last bandage
from the stack in front of me while sitting. Since practice makes
perfect, this time was a cinch. I critiqued my work. I was satisfied.
I cranked up the ol' generator and launched myself forward.

Joints cracked like so much dry kindling. Muscles screamed in anger.
My head spun in place. I decided sitting just a little longer was in
order.

Like a little kid playing with a new scratch, I pealed back the strips
of tape and looked again. Petroleum salve and drying blood created a
psycho's dream portrait. Some of the triangular flaps were mostly
closed and sealed so I laid the tape back in place to allow Body
Ranger to finish the healing process.

I leaned back against the wall and sighed. "Too funny," I thought...

Do-do-dee-doot. Do-do-dee-doot... I heard my cell phone's Three
Stooges theme sound off. "[Ranger]."

"Whatchya doin'?"

"I looked down and laughed. Saving myself."

"Uh-huh. Did you forget to pick up your daughters from school today?"

"No... I was... Oh!" I lifted my arm and air sucked in through
clenched teeth. My palm, resting against my thigh had dried, leaving
the bandage affixed to my jeans.

Some nondelicate words escaped from my mouth.

"What'd'ya do?"

"Uhm. Nothing. Gotta go. Bye." I hung up and rewashed my hand. The
individual ridges on my palm were highlighted blue and black. The
valleys were not scrubbing clean this time.

"Gahds!"

I ripped the last gauze and taped it in place yet again. I was out the
front door as the landphone rang. I knew who it was.

Before I reached the Blue Bomber, the alarm was deactivated and I
reached for the handle. I opened the door and screeched down the
street to get my charges. As I settled into place and set my hands at
10-and-2, I saw another ridge of skin and its valley filling with
blood.

I sighed and drove on. I could just hear SWMBO when she got home. It
would not be a very pleasant evening for me.

The Ranger

¹ Catch-All-Clutter-Containment Center (aka "two-car garage")
²
http://www.ibiblio.org/pub/electroni...rs/Rumpole-FAQ

---
RECIPE:
Sopressata Pasta


INGREDIENTS:
Sauce:
1 med. onion, chopped
6 cloves garlic, chopped, not crushed
2 Tbs. butter
¼ lb. sopressata, cubed
¼ cup sun-dried tomatoes in olive oil, chopped
1 Tbs. red chili flakes
½ cup Zinfandel wine
1 tsp. black pepper, fresh ground
¼ cup Italian parsley, chopped
Optional:
1/2 cup chicken stock
1 pkg. dried Crimini mushrooms, reconstituted
Pasta:
6 cups water, boiling
1 Tbs. olive oil
¼ tsp. Salt
1 lb. penne rigate pasta


METHOD:
Reconstitute mushrooms; drain, do not use liquid from them (filled
with grit) unless you have a lot of patience.

In a large skillet, 10" minimum, sauté onions and garlic together till
translucent. Add in chopped sopressata, sun-dried tomatoes, wine, salt
and peppers. If you want a little extra moisture in your sauce, add in
chicken stock at this point, too. Reduce sauce to desired thickness.
(I'm a little heavy with wine additions so they're very dark.) Add in
parsley towards end of dish. While sautéing onions and garlic, start
water to boiling for pasta. Cook to doneness you like. (We're
mush-eaters, so I cook it to death.) When sauce is reduced to desired
thickness, it should be a deep red; add in pasta and flip thoroughly.
Serve with remaining Zin and cover with aged Asiago. Sit back and
enjoy.