Yes, yes...I sliced myself good and deep yesterday. It was one of my more deft moments with a knife. Miles' first reaction was to get all holier than thou with me and declare, "You should always cut AWAY from yourself. That's one of the first things they teach you in Boy Scouts."

And I viciously cursed the day his parents enrolled him in the program.

I sprinted up the stairs to stem the blood flow and disinfect the site before dressing it with bacitracin ointment, gauze padding, and a Band-Aid as big as my head. I shyly admit my grisly fascination with the wound, but all the same...I was impressed with my quickness of mind, as I would have been screwed otherwise. Miles doesn't handle flesh wounds well. He'd rather stand 10 feet away and dance from foot to foot saying, "Anything I can do to help?" in a panicky tone that says nothing but, "Oh God oh God....please don't ask me to help..."

As I changed the bandage hours later, I noticed how great the area looked and proceeded to show my dear Miles. "Look, look!" I pointed excitedly. He squirmed on the couch and averted his eyes.

"Yeah, that's great Hon."

"But look! I doubt it will even leave much of a scar! Do you see—"

"YEAH," came his reply, its stern tone laced with finality. I licked my right index finger and marked myself an imaginary point in the air. As I walked away, an impish smile playing about my lips, I figured this to be fair enough retribution for his earlier, more condemnatory show.