I dropped a pile of baseboards onto my ring finger at work a month ago. I actually didn’t drop them. They fell onto me. Husband would point out that my saying “I dropped them” is assuming blame like I always do. Apparently, to him, I always assume the role and responsibility of the victim. Anyway, three particleboard baseboards fell on my ring finger. Hard. I was smart enough to get my wedding ring off - after the cussing and before it puffed up and prevented removal. The swelling was pretty impressive. I had a bump size of a three-month paycheck (Silicon Valley paycheck size, not Wal-Mart size) engagement ring. Funny thing, had I had a ring like that, my finger would almost certainly be broken. In fact, I never had an engagement ring. Husband never officially proposed. One night he just asked, and I kid you not - HUSBAND: IF I asked you to marry me, would you say yes? And I, swept away by the pure romance of his proposal said – ME: Yes. And then we just talked logistics for the next two months. We ended up running off to Vegas and getting married in a drive thru where we paid $25 to get married by this guy- One quick ceremony later and we were wearing the rings Husband and I picked out online. They cost $99, are airplane grade titanium and probably saved my finger - to get back to my story. Now, here I am, a month out from the ‘accident’ and I still can’t wear my ring. I’ve taken to wearing it around my neck instead, on the same chain as my grandfathers 19945 HQ baseball wining charm. It’s fricking freezing outside – and inside our insulation challenged house - meaning my neck is usually covered in a scarf. Meaning, most folks can’t see my wedding ring on a chain around my neck and think I’m not married anymore. I had a very uncomfortable conversation at the doctor’s office last week where they kept asking me if I was married and then glancing at my ring finger and giving me a sad knowing look. And last night, the waitress looked at my finger, and decided Husband and I were doing the husband/mistress thing. And then she tried to hit on him. Awkward. So, as Brother would say, to make a long story boring – I’m thinking of getting a tattoo on my ring finger to let the world know I’m married to Husband. I’ve been looking at possible tats on the web and there are lots of options. Interestingly enough, I didn’t find a single picture of a tattoo that said Mrs. or Wife, which I find funny. I guess I could go with our wedding date or an actual ring design like these below. I found these here on this site - have a scroll through them should you be interested in adding a statement ring to yourself. So many options! I think they work best if the husband has one too. Husband’s response to my suggestion that we get matching tattoos – HUSBAND: Not a chance in hell. So this might be the way I go - Just kidding. That’s a total no! I mean ouch! I'm a wimp as it is and can't wear my current ring because it hurts. Can you imagine the damage I'd do to myself with one of those?
Although, it would be a diamond.... I'm kidding. I never wanted a diamond. I wonder if they could do it in an emerald or onyx or turquoise... Seriously kidding. I am just imagining the wounds I'd have when I caught this in my hair or banged it on a door or dropped three particleboard baseboards on my finger at work. I just couldn't not make that look pretty for long. Anyway, until the bump on my poor ring finger heals, I’m stuck writing Mrs. on my finger in permanent marker – which, by the way, is not permanent on skin. It blurs after a day. So now folks think I’m not married, I'm having an affair with Husband AND I have a skin condition. A lovely statement on marriage...
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I bit the inside of my cheek on Saturday. Hard. There might actually be a chunk missing.
Because it’s my cheek, of course, it is infected. My right cheek is swollen and I’m talking like my jaw is wired shut. It’s very sore. And, after all these years of watching CSI this big city and that big city, I have mental images of the cooties traveling from my rabid mouth, into my bloodstream and lodging themselves in my heart. I’m not exaggerating. This article, that is written in more technical terms than ‘cooties’ and ‘rabid mouth’ proves it. Not necessarily that it will happen. Just that it could. And this article here - yes, it’s WebMD but ignore that. But this one has has a fifth grade style video of the heart functions, should you be so inclined to watch. You see the cooties can possibly kill me because I have a mild tricuspid valve leak and a mild mitral valve leak. Apparently, lots of healthy folks have these and never find out that they do - but that’s not the focus of my panic here. I'm not healthy in body or mind as Husband would say. I found out I had a tricuspid leak years ago, when I vasovagal-ed and wound up nose down on the tile floor at my mother's house. The doctor checked to see why I passed out while seeing her to confirm my nose wasn’t broken. (It wasn't.) Apparently passing out when you stand up to get the phone is not a normal thing. Neither is passing out in Costco. Yes, the store can be totally overwhelming but that’s not why I went down. I hit my knee on the cart, the world spun slowly to black and suddenly I was a puddle of me needing clean up on aisle three. Anyway, lots of ultrasounds of my ticker and one fake patient study at Stanford where a dozen wanna be cardiologists took turns trying to hear the "whish whish leak" of my ticker... Talk about an awkward conversation – held thirty times in one day. WANNA BE HEART DOC: Um… ma’am. My name is Dr. WannaBeHeartDoc. Can I... um… lift up your left breast to listen to your heart? ME: You may. WANNA BE HEART DOC: Um.. I’m not hearing anything. Can I… um… move your left breast to the side? ME: You may. WANNA BE HEART DOC: Um.. I’m still not hearing anything. Can … you lie down on the table and put your hands over you head and um… turn your body this way and your left breast that way and um…? ME: You didn't say Simon Says... WANNA BE HEART DOC: I don't get it... It was a long day. I gave the highest points to the guy who warmed his hands up before touching me and complemented my bra. Where was I? Oh, yes. Years ago I was diagnosed with a mild tricuspid and mild mitral valve leak and now I've I bitten my cheek and it’s infected. And that, dear friends, is all I need for a pessimistic optimistic planning session. I’ll have notes on my funeral wishes set by the end of the day and will work on finishing a poem or story or something meaningful about my life or the meaning of life or why the dog is ticking me off or something for Husband to post. And then, when my heart implodes or whatever it does when infected by mouth cooties, and I die, Husband will be selling my car. Anyone interested in a mustachioed Smart Car, call him now. Goodbye dear world. You've been interesting. I can’t sleep when Husband is out of town. I’ve got too many ‘What if…’ possibilities going through my mind. As I’ve said before, my coping mechanism in this situation is to imagine the worst-case scenario and come up with a plan. Part of me likes to think I’m prepared just in case and part of me thinks, if I think the worst, it won’t happen… It’s very morbid and very wrong but it works for me. Hey, it’s much more proactive than Tigger the Dog’s process when Husband is away. She paces from the side of his bed to his office chair to his TV chair to his piano looking for him, holding one or two or three of her babies in her mouth and doing her Chewbacca whine the whole time. It’s awesome. Not. So, with Husband in Boston, I started to plan a ‘What if… life without him. I’ve come to the conclusion that I would be screwed, seriously and totally screwed. First off, Husband hasn’t finished the wiring in the Kitchen/Den. It’s in the walls, and it’s labeled but it’s not attached to the power board thingy. And I have no idea how to wire up anything electric. I think the fact that I called it a ‘power board thingy’ is evidence of that. He’s hired a guy to come do spray foam insulation next week – and yeah, we have no insulation in the Kitchen/Den Attic, and Basement and it’s 20 freaking degrees outside and not much warmer inside. Ugh. Anyway, guy comes in next week to do that. Then all we need to is; buy sheetrock, attach it to the walls, patch the ceiling holes, paint the whole thing, put in a hardwood floor, install the kitchen, finish the fireplace… and that’s just this phase of the project that is our home. The “master” bathroom is still a pink leaking eyesore. The carpet in the bedrooms is a pee stained mess thanks to the former owners many animals that seemed to just go where they pleased. And my office is still just cinderblock walls and linoleum floors... And even with me selling off his cars – and yes, I did Kelley Blue Book them. That is how I roll. - Even with me selling off the cars, how the heck will I afford to hire contractors do all the remodeling and keep myself in the manner I’m accustomed to living –the occasional night out and lots of chips and ice cream while I watch trash TV? I’d have to get a roommate. And other than Mom, who was forced to, Husband is the only roommate I’ve ever had that I could live with. Even Tigger the Dog would agree with that. That’s it. Husband can’t die. I don’t have a plan ready or the skills to implement most of the To-Do list. Oh. And I’d miss him terribly. There’s that too. I’ve currently got fingers crossed that Husband makes it safely home. Fingers and legs and hair… heck, I’ve even crossed the Tigger the Dog’s legs, he’s that important to us! (and to the house) UPDATE: Husband made it home safe and sound - despite the plane having "mechanical issues" involving the auto pilot thingy and having to get on a new plane that was a "downgrade" from the one before. And "downgrade" is the airline's word. Not the best thing to follow "there is a delay due to a mechanical issue" with "we've found you a downgraded plane". Just a suggestion dudes.
Now, as soon as he wakes up, we should go buy sheetrock. I don't want to be behind on the remodel project if he dies anytime soon... Husband managed to terrify his co-worker/seat mate on the flight yesterday. A few weeks ago, when he found out they had to go to Boston, he let her in on his fear of flying and all the things that could go wrong with the plane or the pilot or the weather. A nugget here and a horrific fact there and just like that; the poor girl was absolutely petrified while they were waiting for the plane and barely took a breath until they landed. It didn’t help that this was his last text to her before she left to meet him at the airport. HUSBAND: I’m no gentleman. Only take what you can carry including yourself. And wear comfortable shoes in case we have to run. I should have gotten her contact info and called her and let her know he’s nuts and to laugh off and ignore most of what he says. Except for the point about the comfortable shoes. This is a picture of the "bulls" in Scotland that suddenly appeared in the field we were taking a wander in. Sure they look docile right now but look at their eyes. According to Husband, what they are really saying with their eyes is: Ah will cut ye!
Anyway, they came clambering over the hill at great speed heading directly at us. Husband heard them thundering and yelled, “BULLS! RUN!” And then he ran. He ran out of the field and over the style and left me standing right in the path of the bulls. When I finally got my jaw off the ground and followed him to the safety of the other side, I let him know, in no uncertain terms, how un-chivalrous I felt he’d been. My very succinct argument went something like this: ME: I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU F-ING LEFT ME TO GET CHARGED BY BULLS! His rebuttal was just as compelling. HUSBAND: I TOLD YOU TO RUN! And he had. I couldn’t argue with that. Hopefully his co-worker has a quicker response time and is wearing comfortable shoes. What is the saying; I don’t have to outrun the Zombies. I just have to outrun you. The poor girl is doomed. Husband is off to Boston today for a training thing. Some people would see this as a good thing, traveling on the company dime. For Husband, this is not a good thing. You see, Husband hates lots of things; Eating food in other peoples houses, eating in strange places, eating weird food. But highest up on his list is his hatred for flying. Flying on connecting flights. Flying in weather. Flying to places with high elevation. Flying to places with low elevation. Flying when it’s very cold. Flying when it’s very hot… you get the idea. Husband hates flying. And to add insult to trauma, this business trip has him returning on Friday the 13th. The anxiety level is at bright red over here. Now, Husband is a smart man, too smart for his own good. He likes to watch the Discovery Channel and its like. Any TV channel that has lots of ‘How To…’ shows and ‘What Went Wrong…’ episodes. He particularly likes all the episodes of ‘What Went Wrong With Every Plane Crash Ever’ and ‘How Everyone Died On A Plane’. He’s watched them all. And now, when he flies, he worries about all of those things. All of the little things that could go wrong; the pilot error, bird strikes, explosions, fires and design flaws. And Husband likes to share his ‘knowledge’ with whoever is around, usually when we’re just about to board a flight or are on the flight waiting to take off, or when we’re about to land. All great times to focus on all things horrific. Yes, Husband might be a bit nuts but take a gander at this website and scroll down to the Causes By Category section – it’s enough to make me actually tell him he’s right. Which would only serve to make him more insufferable than he already is so that's not going to happen. Surprisingly enough, we when did have an ‘incident’ last October flying out of Nashville, Husband was very calm. I was the one freaking out as the cockpit filled with smoke and we had to return immediately to the airport where they landed us on a far off runway, quickly evacuated us and sent out fire trucks and men in space suits. Husband was very composed, even when they asked us to leave all our baggage as we were evacuating and this woman pushed her way past him to the front of the plane carrying a very large purse, her large carry-on wheelie bag and a Big Gulp. I almost yanked her off the steps of the plane as she held back everyone from escaping the smoke filled cabin while she slowly waddled her wheelie bag down the stairs, stupid drink in hand. But Husband was very Zen about the whole thing as he waited for her to lug it down the steps and pull it across the tarmac to the safety of the grass. He was, however, very un-Zen like when he told me later where he wanted to shove her Big Gulp… Now, as a very smart man – and don’t tell him I said that - Husband also thinks he can fly the plane if need be. Like if the pilot of a jet plane got sick and his co-pilot got sick and there was no spare pilot onboard and no flight attendants were available to give it the old college try, Husband could fly the plane. Without a single lesson ever. And with his massive, MASSIVE fear of heights. How massive is his fear of heights, you ask? Once, at Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk, he freaked out on the Sky Glider. The Sky Glider that just glides the park from one side to the other at like, the pace of a glacier melting. He was yelling at me to stop moving about and shaking the seats. Screaming and holding on like I did on roller coaster one time – Only I looked better and more in control than he did.
You’d think someone with this doom and gloom outlook would have a Will ready to pull out before every possible disaster. Even one of those Do It Yourself Will things you can find online. But, nope. Husband has no Will. He does, however, have a death plan. Apparently you need one if you see danger behind every “Would you like peanuts or pretzels?” What is Husband’s death plan, you ask? Should his plane be going down or he is lost in the woods or some other disaster has befallen him, Husband plans to write a note implicating all his enemies in evil dastardly events like murders or terrorist plots or whatever. He’s nice enough to include my enemies too. Consider this your warning enemies. Husband is flying to Boston today where it's 24 degrees and according to him, there are a million things that could go wrong. He's already started writing... |
AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
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