Shards

Today I broke two glasses. I almost broke three, but the one I dropped on the floor did not shatter, as it landed in a Tupperware container (that just happened to also be on the floor … don’t ask). After today’s dish washing fiasco, we are down to twelve glasses in our house. Twelve might sound like a decent amount, except five of them are tiny juice glasses (three from one set, two from another) five are medium size glasses from IKEA and aren’t very pretty, and the last two are the only tall glasses we have left. I don’t know what our problem is, but my husband and I can’t seem to go one week without breaking a glass. Thank God this week didn’t draw blood. My husband is the best at that. Last time, he broke a tall glass by shoving his large hand down to the bottom to clean it. The glass broke and sliced his hand open as he tried to remove it. I told Zach I would wash the tall glasses from then on. Today proved I’m not much better.

We decided plastic cups are the way to go. We’ll just go to target, or walmart, and buy some nice, sturdy, reusable plastic cups. I want something I can throw against the wall without fear. And that’s really what it’s about. Fear. After my husband’s bloody ordeal, every time something in the sink breaks, I’m afraid it will result in, at worst, a sliced artery, or at best, a week’s worth of bandages and Neosporin. When did I become so fearful of getting hurt? Don’t even get me started on knives.

One time my mother-in-law came over to cook a decadent meal for my husband, and I played the role of sous-chef. I have virtually zero cooking skills, so I basically got her the ingredients she needed and washed the dishes as she used them. That fateful day, I sliced my finger open while washing a food processor blade, and my fear in the kitchen increased about 400%. Since then, Zach is no longer allowed to put knives or blades in the sink. They must rest on the tiny window sill next to the sink, and only he must wash them. And if that friggin food processor blade ever shows its metal-y face in my kitchen, I must leave the room until it is done being used, washed, and safely stored away. *sigh* I have issues.

Unfortunately, buying plastic knives won’t work as well as plastic cups, so I’m learning to deal with blades in my own unique way. Does anyone else have kitchen nightmares they can’t get over?

Xoxo Liz