I'm ill-equipped

Today we had our last regular season volleyball game. We won 2-1 thanks to Al's craftiness, sister of Berg's persistence and Pearface's brute strength and in spite of my gaffes, blunders and general lack of effort. On my third mishit of the game the ball struck my right ring finger at an obtuse angle, sending little ringy reeling toward pinky for consolation. For the rest of the game, I became increasingly more useless as ringy blew up like the 4th of July while simultaneously wilting like a thirsty rose.Luckily for me, my family and friends are chock full of medical professionals to call upon in trying times like these. So I biked home with my left hand, raided the fridge for ice cubes only to find an empty ice tray, and called my dad:

Me: I hurt my finger
Dad: I'm in an Indian restaurant I can't hear you
Me: I hurt my finger (loudly and with emphasis)
Dad: I'm in an Indian restaurant I can't hear you
(WELL I CAN HEAR YOU)

Great. Dead end. Next, a call to the sister. Shit, voicemail. She's on call. Then, a call to future Dr. BJ.

Doc Beej: Put ice on it.

Thanks, tried that. No ice. And no first aid kit to tape/splint it. So, here I sit, typing with one hand with a frozen piece of Tandoori chicken resting on my wounded digit. Pathetic. Any suggestions from you loyal readers? It took me 30 mins to write this and the chickens defrosting. Oh well, at least I have dinner.