My Dad cut his finger off

So just before school on Friday, I was handling a new knife I had in for review and I cut my index finger on my left hand.  It was not a particularly bad cut, but it did bleed an unusual amount, given how shallow it was.  More than the cut or the blood, I was frustrated with the band aid packaging (as one usually is, band aid packaging is awful).  Among the bleeding and the torn band aids, I may have let loose a swear word or two.  Isaac stood there, mouth agap worried more than the cut warranted.

I patched myself up and we got in the car and went to school (in uniform and on time, mind you).  After I left him out, apparently I-man had a conversation with THE Sister Irene that went something like this:

Isaac: My Dad cut his finger off.
Sister Irene: Really?  When?
Isaac: This morning.
Sister Irene: Oh my goodness.  Did he go to the hospital?
Isaac: No.
Sister Irene: Well, who took you to school?
Isaac: My Dad.
Sister Irene: Was he okay?
Isaac: He was bleeding all over the place.
Sister Irene: Oh MY!

So that is not exactly what happened, but I can only imagine what Sister Irene thinks actually happened.  She either thinks I am John Wayne tough or a total moron, or a bit of both.  I am just glad Isaac didn't tell her I swore.  Even at 39, her nun stare scares the bejeezus out of me.