Two weeks after inadvertantly fileting my hand, I finally have the stitches out.
The other morning while taking Salad Boy to school, he dropped a verbal bombshell.
"How's it look?" I asked him.
"I don't want to say,"
"Why?" I asked.
"Dad, I don't want to hurt your feelings."
"C'mon. Say it. I won't be offended."
Turns out he thought it looked like a vagina.
"I noticed it two days ago and didn't want to say anything," he said.
It is at this point in the story that I'd like to thank the Hillsborough County School District for implementing its Human Growth and Development instructional plan this month in sixth grade.
But I digress.
He wasn't wrong.
We humbly request that you withhold your "Britney Spears getting out of a car" jokes until later.
Anyway, I made the mistake of relaying this conversation at work. My desk neighbor, Patty, found it very amusing. To the extent that whenever anyone has stopped by this week to ask, "How's the hand?" she busts out into spasms of laughter. Yesterday, during a conversation with an editor, the term "handgina" was coined.
I couldn't be more proud.
Hoping that I wasn't alone in my shame, I Googled the word.
I found this.
My shame continues.