They [refuse to] call me '3-Stitch'

I'm in an 8-week woodcarving class with a couple of friends. During our introductory class, our instructor, Jim, announced that he's had students cut themselves while working, but he's never had one die. Then, as he walked away, we heard him mumble, "Except for Betty Stimler..."

Five weeks into the class, the fate of Betty Stimler is still unknown. Beyond that, the class has had its ups and downs:

Up: Our classmates. We've won-over Rex (woodcarver's fanny pack) and Pat (orange). Glenna (center, hiding) is playing hard to get.

Down: My ear of corn (middle) was lost in the mail to my sister, who received only a chewed up envelope in a plastic bag with a note that said "The Post Office cares."

Up: My chicken, which is the greatest thing I have ever made. Ever.

Down: My midnight trip to the emergency room. I broke Jim's ONE rule of woodcarving: Keep Things That Bleed out of the way of Things That Cut. To make matters worse, I've been trying to jumpstart a new nickname for myself all day, and no one is playing along.

Hurt, but not Injured.

While leaping the year with 50 or 60 friends and strangers at my house on Friday night, it seemed like a completely reasonable idea to exit my house through a window. The door was fully operational and 3 feet away.

I hurt myself, which has caused me to limp unattractively.

Today, in a public restroom, I spotted a woman looking at me. Then she started limping, clearly mocking me. I gave her the Filthiest Look Ever and limped away, appalled by her rudeness.

Then I rounded the corner and saw her crutches leaning against the wall.