It’s because I joked about Botulism on Facebook yesterday, which was Weird Wednesday, that I have probably gotten the Ptomaine today.Sutures! Forceps!Did you hear someone yelling that, as if from an episode of MASH or ER? It was me. My brain, actually. Since I have neither sutures or forceps in my medical arsenal (a plastic bag under the master bathroom sink), I settled for non-stick gauze and medical tape. But I am getting ahead of myself.Actually, no — If I had eaten the dirt and bacteria that entered through the gash in my left index finger, then I most assuredly would have the Ptomaine now. I add ‘the’ before Ptomaine because that is how my Nana would have said it, I am sure. I would ask her, but she’s been in Heaven since 1987. I’ve talked to her occasionally over the years. Every decade or so, she pops up in a dream. That’s almost an answer, I suppose.So I am back to Botulism … which is still wrong because it is carried by contaminated food or water. Wait! I was running water at the time the grievous injury occurred, so yeah … Botulism.See, this is what happens when you play around and joke on a Weird Wednesday, when the lesser moons of Uranus are aligned above your head.It happened to me. Lesser moons aligned. Weird Wednesday was yesterday, like I said. Yet I persevered into today. After the gym, I decided to wash the cars. All went well, until I noticed blood, running down my left hand. My brain did a Norman Bates right quick:https://youtu.be/dyxcQ4FV6KMMy brain said that and I giggled. It seems that I had gashed my knuckle. I sucked at it, spreading the Ptomaine-Botulism-whatever. It bled more.Like I said:Sutures! Forceps!Once bandaged, I returned to rinse off the second vehicle. I had taken care of Claus first, the smaller of the two auto-men in my life. I had washed and dried him, then placed him lovingly at the curb so as not to re-sully him with overspray. It was while I was scrubbing the Behemoth that the blood thing happened. Anyway, as I rinsed, I planned to let the second auto-man in my life air dry. “You are more rugged than Claus,” I whispered (in my brain).I saw-heard (in my brain) my husbands and father (I’ve had two husbands and one dad, all of whom are in Heaven, probably annoying the heck out of my Nana …), admonishing me.Aren’t you going to dry that vehicle?Sigh. Yes, sirs; you are right.Drying a hand-washed car was ingrained in me from childhood when I helped my dad wash his cars in the driveway. When I bought my first car, I followed suit: wash, dry, every time.My second husband in particular felt similarly and laughed when I, the ever height-challenged, struggled to dry the Behemoth’s windscreen.My auto-men and Heaven-dwelling men would all confirm that I am a rebel at heart. Perhaps they would use other terms … contrary, difficult. I dried the windows and let the sun do the rest. Rebellion at its finest.I considered penning a love poem to my newly cleaned vehicles, but since it is Throwback Thursday, I’ll let The Brothers Johnson do it for me:https://youtu.be/XgsJLGQTfEESo there you have it.How’s your week been? Have the lesser moons of Uranus been aligned above your head recently?