...Because I'm nuts.
So, because The Boyfriend™ and I would rather hang out watching horrible television, while completely pretending that we don't have stuff we should be doing instead (see The Boyfriend™! TV is bad!), our house had kind of, sort of gotten rather... let's call it "lived in." Not that our parents would be all judgey about it or anything, but still. I'm not comfortable sitting in seven year's worth of someone else's dust; I wouldn't want to do it to anyone else.
...And also because The Nancarita ingrained the whole "when having company, one must clean every possible surface EVAR" thing in me. The bitch.
So, The Boyfriend™ was doing the dishes last night and gashed hand WIDE open (well, the webbing between two fingers). Like, I could see his shoulder, the gash was so deep. I told him he needed stitches, but The Boyfriend™ thought it would be a MUCH better idea to make the gaping wound in his hand talk to The Trolls. Totally gross.
Flash forward 24 hours -- past the point of safely stitching the wound closed (unless you want to run the risk of massive infection) -- and we're at an urgent care clinic getting the talking wound checked out. The doc said The Boyfriend™ should've had stitches (while implying -- really strongly -- that The Boyfriend™ was a jackass for not getting Handy, The Talking Gash checked out sooner). I gloated. The Boyfriend™ got a tetnus shot. It was awesome.
And in other news, the cleaning-in-preparation-of-cooking festivities continues. Ironically, I'm not mad about doing most of it myself. It's the price I have to pay for being right. Totally worth it.
It's not The Boyfriend™'s hand, but this picture is another from the bajillion I unloaded from my camera. I don't know why, but I heart this picture so much. It's The Nugget, being unusually camera shy.