Last night, after an absolutely amazing trip to Ocracoke for a weekend of camping, J and I decided to take on the house again. One is still likely to step on an appliance, into a box full of the stuff we have acquired over our lifespans (note to friends, please PLEASE do not give either of us any more items we may be forced to look at one day, think about throwing away, and then think, "no, no I can't! So-and- so gave me this precious metal star affixed with pastel ribbons!"), or run straight into a heavy, wooden piece, most likely something picked up on the side of the road. J decided to move some of the furniture in our "office" (please read: tiny room with washer and dryer and kitty litter) due to a shortage of outlets along one wall. He was moving his desk and it got pretty frustrating. So frustrating that in a particularly infuriating moment - maybe the thing didn't move the way he wanted it to - maybe he realized the futility of our month-long endeavors - he went to punch the awkward piece of furniture but caught his finger on a shell sculpture instead. This shell sculpture came from a beach junk store in Rehobeth, Delaware, and I'd bought it for J and his roommate Grant one summer after a vacation there. Four seashell creatures sit around a table playing cards. I believe J got one square on the head, as we could later see the wavy shape of the shell in the wound.

Blood gushed as J yelled and I tried to think of the very best way to survive this situation. He was not only hurt, but angry. After all, the injury occurred after a temporary loss of temper, and the shell incident was sure to make things worse. We washed it off in the sink and I got some ice, but after a few moments we decided we'd better go to the E.R. as the cut was really deep and wouldn't stop bleeding.

Thus, J went to the emergency room yesterday because he cut his right index finger on a seashell sculpture I'd bought for he and Grant at a junk store in Delaware. The shell creatures are playing cards. And, apparently, plotting cruel tricks against their owner.

We spent about three hours at UNC Hospital where everyone was very nice and only laughed with us when we explained, over and over again, that he got the cut because he punched a seashell. "Was it a real seashell?" they asked. "From the ocean?" "No, this was a seashell from a seashell sculpture." Ok.

J didn't need stitches, luckily. The resident put some fast-drying sealant on the cut and when we got home I made sure he sat down on the couch and watched some television. It had been a rough evening. We made tacos and looked at our disaster of a house which will one day, some day, be a place where people can move freely without running into furniture, boxes, or kitschy souvenirs.