Staplers are dangerous. Who knew?

Well...Washington seems to be a lot safer place than Georgia. Which is great, except that might be detrimental to this blog. But then again...I am Erin. And Jamie pointed out a few post back that I don't mix well with staples. So I thought I would take you on a little trip back to my childhood. Where I was rather dangerous to myself.

Actually, let's start by going back only a few years. I was in college and I brought Jamie home for Thanksgiving break because she lived too far away to go to her own home. Or her parents didn't love her, your pick. So let's set the scene: Jamie, Mom, I, and a few other unimportant people for this story were in the kitchen. And Mom was being a mom and telling Jamie and everyone about what a perfect and angelic child I was. (Hey, my story, my rendition of how it went down.)

Anyway, Mom made a comment about how we would try to talk while being in a different room. This was a HUGE pet peeve of Mom's. If you wanted to talk to her you had better be in the same room as her. None of this "MOM! Come here!" shit. No, not at all.

Which lead me to a story of my own. I was around 5 years old...let's say 4 1/2 so I don't seem so stupid. I was upstairs playing with the stapler. I don't know why. I could say it was because I never had any toys. But let's face it, Mom bought me more Barbies and Barbie crap than I could ever want. So like...one...

Anyway, I was playing with the stapler upstairs in the hallway when all of a sudden...clunk...o. There I was...there was the wooden railing...there was my little finger...and there was a staple through my little finger and railing. Huh...who could have seen that coming? It hurt, I won't lie. I was a little more baffled than injured. I was surprised that a staple would actually go through my finger. But apparently it would.

I tugged at it a little and realized that I was stuck. I mean really stuck. I thought about gnawing off my finger to get free. But let's face it, I was 4 and at that age everyone is a picky eater. So I took a deep breath and yelled "MOOOMMMM!" To which I got the standard reply, "If you want to talk to me, come in here!" from the kitchen. Great, the one thing I couldn't do. I yelled some more things like "I can't" and "Come help me." But I knew I was on my own. No mom to come save me.

So I studied my situation and I slowly and painfully pulled the staple out of the railing and then out of my finger. It hurt, a lot. I imagine that that must have been what it felt like to pull a bullet out of your shoulder. (Yes, I watched Miami Vic with my Dad.) So there I was free. I thought about running down to my Mom and telling how much I was in danger and she didn't come. And then it dawned on me. I stapled myself to the railing. I mean even at 3 1/3 I knew how stupid that was. So if I went to put the guilt trip on Mom I would also have to admit to the dumb thing I did. Who staples herself to the railing? I mean really? So I put the stapler down, cleaned the blood off the railing, hid all other evidence, and picked up a stupid doll. Hmmm...could I staple Barbie to the railing and blame my older brothers? That might be fun...but I better not play with the stapler anymore.

So once I finished telling the story, my wonderful Mother, who stood in the kitchen listening and making Thanksgiving dinner said, "I don't remember you stapling your finger to the railing." To which I quickly replied, "Well no! You wouldn't come help me no matter how loud I screamed!" And she replied back, "Well you know how I feel about you kids yelling at me from the other rooms." Jamie was overly amused.