Welcome to Our Store

For those of you keeping track...oh forget it. The numbers are too depressing. After all, I've been working at BBW for a year but apparently still lack the coordination to work a box cutter. And I'm pretty sure that our new manager Nicole's idea of a good orientation does not involve sitting with me in the walk-in clinic while they stitch me up. But then, it wasn't my idea of a fun time, either.

All right, so watchingthe dude clean and stitch it was kind of fun. And it's not like blood freaks me out or anything (does for Jen though, poor thing). But that moment when I was opening a box and hit my left hand and went, oh well, I do this all the time. Until the next instant when it starts pouring out of me and I'm running to the bathroom, wrapping toilet paper around it (not the best choice, sterilely speaking). Granted, nothing I could've done would have worked. But I'm still trying to be all macho, cause when Jen knocks on the bathroom door and goes, "Paige is taking you to the doctor," I'm still all, "I don't wanna go."

Common sense did win out, though- "As long as it isn't the E.R." So off we three went. Specifically, it's four stitches on the back of my hand just below the thumb. I'll be kind and spare you the gory details even though they fascinate me. Fascination's wearing off, though, along with the adrenaline and lidocaine. And I'm left with the "I can't believe I did this" feeling and the moral that box cutters are not your friend.