Just When You Thought It Was Safe To Come Back To The Mansion

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was on a ladder last night, resetting that number on the Mansion "DAYS WITHOUT AN ACCIDENT" sign to ZERO. Okay. That's not quite true. Mrs. HM would never climb a ladder, because that in itself would result in an accident.

Last evening, Farmer H was gone to a far-off auction, and some trash needed to go out. I'd say he planned it that way, but the trash was all my own, from my dark basement lair, and Farmer H never takes that giant black trash bag up the 13 steps and outside to the dumpster. Besides, I'm not an invalid. It's my own trash, and I'm capable of disposing of it.

I was extra careful, because I was home alone. Not that I set up a pointy-object obstacle course, or superheated the doorknob, in case the Wet Bandits came a-callin'. Nope. I was careful not to fall. Took my cell phone in my pocket in case of an emergency. Didn't even pull the door until it latched, just in case it decided to lock itself. I cautioned the dogs to GET AWAY so I didn't trip on them while walking down the uneven bricks of the front sidewalk.

On the way back in, I confused those poor doggies by heading for the front door. My sweet, sweet Juno was already halfway up the steps of the side porch. Jack dashed ahead of me down the sidewalk, but hesitated just in case I had the urge to head over by the goat pen. That's what I normally do if I'm down on the front sidewalk. Those dogs know my habits.

When Jack saw me turn to go up on the porch, he launched his long body up the steps. I stopped to pet him, putting one hand on the rail to steady myself while I put a foot on the steps.

YOUCH!

I knew what happened before I looked. It's hard to mistake the feeling of a splinter sliding under your skin. Especially on the hand, with all its nerve endings.

Yes, it's just a tiny splinter. You'll probably hurt your eyes looking for it more than it hurt my skin. See? There below my thumb. Here. Let me give you a closeup.

In fact, that almost looks as if the splinter is on the surface. I assure you, it was not. But I DID hold out hope that this splinter was just in that transparent top layer of flesh. So that I could pull it out easily, with no complications. That was not the case.

Under the lights of the master bathroom sink, which are oddly similar to a row of lights above a makeup mirror used by Vegas showgirls (in movies, no first-hand knowledge here)...I used tweezers to remove that splinter. It kind of hurt a little bit. I figured it would, since it burned when I ran cold kitchen sink water over it before the tweezer-wielding.

At least that splinter didn't splinter! I got it all, except that tiny little piece that wasn't attached. Sorry that last pic is out of focus, but it's kind of hard to take a one-handed picture with a phone.

Another dose of cold running water, some blotting with a paper towel, a slathering of triple antibiotic ointment...and I was ready to make my supper.

I expect to make a full recovery, possibly within 24 hours! The wound has already absorbed that ointment, and formed a papery-thin layer of new skin or clear scab over itself. The injury is not in a bad place, and does not hinder blogging or eating. So I'm good to go.

I'm pretty sure Farmer H is trying to kill me, though. That handrail was pretty thirsty for my blood. I believe it's customary to moisturize seal wood from the elements at least once a year, to prevent this dry splintering effect...
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UPDATE:

Mrs. HM is on the mend!

The wound has covered itself with a film of fresh skin, 18 hours later, and is not noticeable (to me) unless I put pressure on it, like when steadying myself with that hand on the upstairs floor as I walk up the 13 steps from my dark basement lair.

Now I need to show it to Farmer H, and tell him to stop mis-treating his wood.