Tag: injuries

A Viking Cat-Ass-trophe

I’ve rubbed off on The Viking.  It happened slowly at first so I didn’t really give it much thought, but with the latest incident, I can’t ignore the evidence any longer.  He’s a Viking Klutz.

In the past few years, he’s had a couple of war wounds.  He banged his leg on a sharp something in the shop, left it to fester for a week, and then presented me with a Sweet-Baby-Jesus(!) oozing wound that required intensive pampering to heal.  He sliced his finger, again in the shop, that sent us to Emergency to have it stitched up before he bled to death.  And other less spectacular injuries that I don’t have time to list.

However, no previous incident can compare with his latest mishap.  It comes with a Red Alert Warning, too.

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Turn back now if you are squeamish about Bums.  Asses.  Derrieres.  Cracks-of-Dawns, or any other euphemism that applies to the muscles upon which you sit.

The day was the same as any other day around here.  The Viking went out to the shop, as per usual, and I was doing my own somethings in the house, as per usual.  From time to time, there were shouts and cursing seeping into the house from the shop, but I don’t even notice them anymore.  The Viking excels at verbalizing his frustrations, very often and at very high decibels, and I’ve developed almost total deafness for sounds coming from the shop.

There came a moment though, that got a tiny piece of my attention for a tiny amount of time.  It was just a second, a blip, a staccato peep, that I dismissed almost immediately even though the sound was not usually part of The Viking’s repertoire.  In my defense, I just thought he was extraordinarily annoyed with a something that required an extraordinary curse.  It was only later that I realized the significance of that blip.

Two hours later, I had reason to visit the shop and found a quiet Viking leaning to the left in his office chair.  “I really wrecked myself this time, babe.”

“Oh?  What happened?”

He lurched out of his chair to recreate the events that ‘wrecked’ him, just stopping short of actually suffering the injury again.  Apparently, he tripped over a trailer hitch and fell backwards.  The lock part of the hitch was sticking straight up and that’s what he landed on.  On his ass.  His right ass cheek, to be exact.  A centimeter (half inch give or take) to the left and he would have completely lost his virginity.*  He whipped his pants down so I could get a look, and it wasn’t pretty.  The offended spot had a shallow cut and the area around it was already turning black and purple and was becoming hard as a rock.

“Holy shit!!  Does it hurt?”  Well, of course it hurt!  He wouldn’t have bothered mentioning it if it didn’t.

Within an hour, half of his bum was purple.  Two hours later his entire right bum cheek was purple and spreading to the left cheek.

I couldn’t look away.  It was the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen!  I really wanted him to just stand in the kitchen, naked from the waist down so I could observe the exponential expansion of Bruise Willis and poke it often for ripeness.

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It was so wildly unbelievable that I had to share it.  I sent a picture to his brother in Denmark which got an immediate response of “What the fuck happened?!”  I sent a picture to my daughter which got a quick response of….

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Which made me go…..

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I’m not totally without a heart though.  It was obvious – from my close scrutiny and poking of Bruise Willis – that The Viking was going to need some way to sit down.  So, we jury-rigged a pillow and an ice pack.  The following day it was no better and probably even worse.  The whole thing was so massive I started to get a bit concerned.  Can you get a blood clot in your bum that could travel to your brain/lungs/heart?

“Maybe we should go to a medical clinic.” The Viking thought it was unnecessary but on the third day without any improvement, I forced the issue.

The Doctor was a young guy in his late twenties or early thirties and after a brief explanation from us, he told The Viking to drop his pants.  I think the guy thought we were over-reacting to a minor bruise, but he was thoroughly impressed.

“OH!  WOW!  How did you do that?”

Long story short: The Viking will live to fall another day, we shouldn’t be concerned about blood clots, and here’s a prescription for the pain.  However, Bruise Willis earned The Viking some pampering and a couple sick days off work.

And this brings us to the title of who is the biggest Klutz in the house.  I received two points – one for an infected tooth and another for my spectacular skid across the industrial carpet at the back door.  I also received a bonus point for doing it in front of a customer.  The Viking received three points – one for the oozing leg wound, one for the nearly amputated finger, and one point for Bruise Willis.  He also received two bonus points for style.

With 5 points for presentation and creativity, The Viking is now the Champion Klutz.  Long live the Klutz!

*I didn’t say that right then though because that I thought it might be too soon.

Another Day, Another Murder Attempt

Four in the morning.  Sleeping peacefully.  Dreaming happy dreams.

“OW! Fucking OWWWW!”

I bolted upright in time to see Izzie catapulted into the air.  Obviously, she bit The Viking’s toes.  Again.  She curls up against his legs when he’s sleeping and when he tries to move, he gets the big chomp.  Or more than one chomp.  Sometimes she chomps four or five times in a lightning-fast cluster, depending on how annoyed she is, I suppose.

She gets me too, in the middle of the night.  My right armpit has scars.  I walked past her Cat Tree today while I was tidying up and stopped to give her a cheek rub and have a short lovey chat.  When I wanted to move on, both paws grabbed my wrist and claws dug in, drawing blood in three spots.

“OW!  Fucking OWWWW!!!!”

I squeezed some hand sanitizer on the wounds because if I don’t, it takes months for them to heal.  Thanks to COVID I have jugs of that shit everywhere.  While I rubbed in the sanitizer, she just sat there like nothing had happened!

Me: WHY?! Why, why, why?!

Her: Why not?

Me: I thought we talked about the murder attempts!

Her: I don’t recall.

Me: We have had many, many conversations about this.

Her: You’ll have to refresh my memory.

Me: NO CLAWS!!

Her: Hmmm…..I vaguely remember something, but that was years ago.

Me: IT WAS YESTERDAY!!

Her: Really? It seems so long ago, and I didn’t think you meant forever.

Me: Yes!  FOREVER!

Her: That sounds a little extreme, don’t you think?

Me: If I’m bleeding, it’s not extreme!

Her: You’re such a Drama Queen.

Me: You’re such a pain in my ass!

Her: Whatever.  By the way, you missed a spot on the counter.  I can see it all the way over here.

Me: You know what?  You’re just one small step away from becoming a Barn Cat on some guy’s farm.

Her:  You wouldn’t.  You love me.

Me:  I’m bleeding, and the thought is becoming more appealing all the time.

Her: The Viking wouldn’t let you.

Me:  You bit The Viking’s toes last night!  Trust me, it was his idea!

Her:  ……..

We haven’t spoken since.  Well, she tried to talk in a squeaky, mewing tone, but I’m holding a grudge until my wrist stops hurting.

Fucking cat.

We Need A Permanent Paramedic Team Just For Me, Apparently!

I know I’m a Klutz.  I also know why I’m a klutz.  It’s mostly because I’m not paying attention to what I’m doing – a problem I assume most Over-Thinkers are familiar with.  I walk forward while looking backward, trip over threads, bread crumbs, dandelion fluff, or forget I’m carrying something in my right hand when I pick something up with my left hand.  The carnage is usually contained to spilled liquids or broken glass, but occasionally I do manage minor body injuries.  Having said that, I admit that what happened two days ago was monumental, even for me.  And I wasn’t even distracted.

I was finishing off the final touches to my year-end books when there was a knock at the door.  Usually, I just bellow for whoever it is to come in but I was feeling good for accomplishing the “Worst Task In The Modern World” and thought I would actually go open the door.  I twirled my office chair around in a sassy/breezy move and stood up enthusiastically with a welcoming smile already on my face.

My industrial, 3-meter long Door Mat* said, “Not today, Lady!  Ha HA!!” and lifted its edge just enough for my slipper to catch.

Time…slowed…down.

No way.  You aren’t doing this now, are you?  I thought we talked about being aware of your surroundings, taking that extra little second to lift your feet?  Have you forgotten already?

No, I haven’t forgotten exactly.  I was just so happy!  What’s the harm in a little sassiness and breeziness?  People do that all the time!  It’s not like I was tap dancing.

‘People’ can do sassiness and breeziness.  You cannot.  Ever.  And, just so you don’t forget, here is a little pain to make the lesson stick.

Again?!  Why are you always using Pain as your main Teaching Tool?  We aren’t cavemen anymore, you know.  And would it kill you to get my arms to take up some sort of defensive position so my face doesn’t take the brunt of your abuse?

No.  Your arms are stupid.  The best I can do is get your knees between your industrial Door Mat and your face.

My arms aren’t stupid.  They are traitorous bastards that only think of themselves and this isn’t the first time they have betrayed me.  And if my knees are the best you can do, I suppose I’m at your mercy, but I will be lodging a complaint about your incompetence.  Just so you know.

Oh!  You should also know that your centre of gravity is such that your knees can’t completely save you.  Your shoulder is going to ram into that shoe rack and your face is going to smear itself across the bottom third of the door.

Seriously?!  It’s 3 meters from here to the door.  I’m going to skid, aren’t I?

At least once.  Maybe more.  It depends on your knees, really.

I don’t suppose you would reconsider, would you?

Nope.

Fuck.

I started shouting with annoyance before I actually came to a complete stop and the second syllable was slightly incomprehensible because half of my face was squished against the door.

GEEZUS!!!

Before I could assess the damage, a small voice on the other side of the door said…..

“Um….are you okay?!”

“Yes!!  I’m fine!  Geezus!”  I had forgotten all about this guy in the 2 seconds it took me to crash – deafeningly I assume – into the door.

“Are you sure?  Do you want me to get someone?”

“NO!  I’m fine!  What do you even need?”

“Umm…I’m here to look at my sled.  Your husband is working on it.  He called me to come and look at what he found.”

Grunt.  “Go through that white door behind you.  He’s in there!”

“Okay.  You’re sure you don’t need any help?”

“NO!”  Why won’t he just leave already?  Gawd!

I pushed myself into a sitting position and took stock.  The shoulder took a good hit, as did my face – not a bruising kind of hit, just an annoying kind of hit – but the winner in this encounter was my left knee.  I pulled up my pant leg and saw the skin peeled off in two places.  Because of the skidding, I suppose.

Oooo…that looks painful.

It is.  And I’m not talking to you right now.

When The Viking came in the house an hour or so later I asked if the customer mentioned anything.  He said, no, why?  I pulled up my pant leg.

The slight scraping off of skin had, by now, turned into two huge, bloody scrapes that were irritated by my pants which was just as well because I was irritated, too.  I was slightly gratified that the amount of pain was equal to the wound itself because most of the time that doesn’t happen – it just hurts like hell but doesn’t even show a mark for a small amount of pity.

Typically, The Viking said, “What the fuck did you do?”

I pointed at the irrational Door Mat and then stomped on it for good measure.  “This Door Mat has to go!  It’s a death trap!”

To prove that I was definitely not a Sissy, I plastered a couple of band-aides on the scrapes and called it a day.

Fast forward to last night.  Those damned scrapes were killing me so I decided to take off the band-aides and have a look-see.

GEEZUS!!

They were actually getting infected and the band-aides were stuck to the scrapes so I ended up pulling even more skin off!

In case any of you are wondering…..The Viking is a TERRIBLE, TERRIBLE, TERRIBLE nurse!  He started rubbing the scrapes with a vigor reminiscent of cleaning soap scum off a tub with a cotton pad only slightly moistened with peroxide.  I howled, he told me to clench my teeth, I turned gray and considered passing out, he called me a baby, I called him a dirty, miserable rat bastard, he grunted, I grabbed the bottle of peroxide and just poured it on the scrape which started foaming like crazy and he howled at the waste of perfectly good peroxide.

Fast forward to tonight.

I’m going to survive.  It was touch and go there for a while but apparently, The Viking’s cruel and unusual bedside treatments were as successful as they were painful.  Don’t tell him that though – he’ll become insufferable.

 

 

*It saves my floors from customers’ shoes.

 

Call The Paramedics 3

I pulled ‘A Viking’ the other day.  I was cutting up potatoes to make oven fries for supper when I had a rare knife glitch and sliced a finger – the left pointer finger, to be precise.  I made a soft, dainty, ladylike coo – very much like a Dove – and grabbed the finger with my right hand, a little afraid to look at the damage because I felt resistance in the knife.  The Viking, sitting nearby at his computer, barely heard me.

“FUUUUUCK!!”

It was only because The Viking had such good hearing that he noticed and without actually looking at me said, “What happened?”

“I cut off my finger.”

He says, “Well, put a Band-Aide on it.”

What?!  THAT’S NOT HOW YOU ASSESS A HEALTH CRISIS!!

I carefully opened my right hand and found zero blood, which could be good news in that I hadn’t cut deep enough for blood….or…..very bad news if I didn’t have any blood to bleed……or…..super news because my body was capable of instantaneous healing.  Like a Superhero.  Note to self:  Create a great Superhero Name.

I decided to put a Band-Aide on it anyway so I could carry on with the potatoes but halfway to the bathroom and the Band-Aides I started gushing blood.  Note to self:  never mind about the Superhero name.  I recruited The Viking to apply the Band-Aide but he seemed completely unimpressed with the amount of blood I was leaking and how much it hurt.

I said “Ouch!” and he snorted like it was barely a scratch which kind of annoyed me.  “You act like it’s nothing!”

Him:  “Well, it is nothing.”

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Me:  “It definitely IS something!”

Him:  “You don’t need stitches, now do you?”

Me:  “That’s only because I am more talented than you are!”

Him:  “What?!” A high-pitched squawk.

Me:  It’s true!  I managed a deep, clean cut without hitting an artery.  Anybody can slice an artery, but it takes a very high level of skill to miss the artery, and I wasn’t even trying that hard.  That’s skill, with a capital ‘S’!

Him:  ……….

Me:  That’s right!  Your slicing skills are amateurish and hap-hazard, but what can I expect from a guy born and bred to throw axes?

Him:  ……….

Me:  Also, you need to finish the potatoes because I have a work-place injury.  Don’t make me report you to Occupational Health & Safety.

Apparently, I dazzled him with my intellectual prowess because he finished the potatoes.  I considered pushing for a day off due to a risk of infection but decided to quit while the quitting was good.

The problem with the stupid cut is that it went in on an angle, so the flap part catches on things and hurts like a bastard.  So, I need a Band-Aide to stop tearing it open again but then it isn’t healing as well as it would without the Band-Aide.  Also, it’s bruised too, and every time I knock it even a little bit it hurts like a bastard.

So, my left pointer finger is not my favourite digit at the moment.  I thought about making the right pointer finger the favourite in the meantime, but that’s too much competition and could lead to prolonged pointer finger angst.  Instead, my right middle finger is the current favourite, and I am using it frequently.  Especially when I’m complaining to The Viking about my workplace injury and his underwhelming sympathy.

Sharing is caring.

Call the Paramedics! Again!

You may not remember, or maybe you do, but a couple of years ago I almost cut off my hand and The Viking tried to steal my well-deserved sympathy by comparing an ass-bruise with my almost severed hand.  He called it a paper cut, but that’s only because he wanted his ass-bruise to qualify as the most significant injury of the week, thereby rerouting my inalienable right for pampering to himself.

And this isn’t the only time he stole pampering rights.  I had an abscessed tooth that required intravenous antibiotics for 5 days.  He countered with swollen glands the following morning that put him in the hospital for over a week.  So, not only did I not get any pampering, I was running back and forth to the hospital to pamper him, dragging my antibiotic pump with me!

I’m mentioning it here because The Viking almost cut his finger off with a box cutter which created a moment of utter confusion because he literally reversed the Natural Injury/Disease Time Continuum.  He came running in the house drizzling blood and swearing profusely and time slowed down as my mind desperately tried to understand what was happening.  His fountain of blood can only happen if a fountain of blood has already erupted from me.  That’s how our shit works.  First me…..then him!  But I hadn’t seen any of my blood or felt any pain and my limbs were all present and accounted for which, logically, would mean I am uninjured.  But, if I’m uninjured and he is injured, something has gone terribly wrong in the Universe.

He fiddles around in the shop with things I can only assume are mechanically magical and now, in light of these events, my only reasonable conclusion is that he accidentally stepped out of the Mechanic Pentagram and unleashed a Demon.  Of course, when you fiddle with magic you know that eventually something unintended will happen, but I had thought/hoped it would involve less blood and more Robots.  Cooking and cleaning Robots to be exact.

Once Time returned to its normal progression, I ran for the gigantic first aid kit* while he drizzled blood into the kitchen sink.  I grabbed a roll of gauze and started wrapping it around his neck.  He said, “What the fuck are you doing?!”  And I said, “Installing a Tourniquet”.  Apparently, crisis humor isn’t appreciated in the middle of a crisis.

He started examining the cut more carefully.  “I think it went right to the bone.”

I said, “Oh my god!” and almost fainted.

Yes.  I almost fainted.  Meaning, he got hurt and I was pre-empting his injury.  He sat on a kitchen chair holding pressure on the cut while I sat on a kitchen chair with my head between my knees, sucking in air like a guppy out of water.  After a couple of minutes, I thought I was okay and sat up and almost passed out again!  It took me 20 fucking minutes to get a grip!  To add insult to injury – my injury, obviously – he was happily calling me “Pale Face” which is Danishy for “Pasty Face”.

We needed to get to the hospital, I knew that immediately.  The Viking disagreed.  We should wait and see if it would quit bleeding on its own.  I had wrapped some gauze around the middle finger fairly tight and I was a little concerned about leaving it on too long.  Two and a half hours later, it was still pumping out blood and would obviously need professional medical help.

Four and a half hours after that, the ER Doctor was impressed that The Viking had managed to cut his finger so deep that he severed the main blood vessel and yet hadn’t severed the nerve.  It took 5 stitches to sew his finger back together.

So, to recap:  The Viking reversed the Natural Injury/Disease Time Continuum and in so doing may or may not have created a demon in the shop but definitely didn’t create a Robot that could cook and clean.  Being so confused by the shifting of reality, I co-opted his pampering opportunity by almost fainting.  I finally got to use the Gigantic, Industrial-Sized First Aid Kit and it wasn’t on myself.  The Viking called me a name, I put a tourniquet around his neck and an ER Doctor was impressed with The Viking’s cutting talents.

And that’s how you get yourself an extra-long weekend on strict Doctor’s orders.  And also additional state-of-the-art medical supplies for the next attempted amputation.

 

*He bought the largest kit available because he assumed I would hack a limb off while cleaning Cauliflower one day and he wanted to be “prepared”.  I took a brief moment to remind him of that and to point out exactly who almost cut what off first.

The Viking’s Stabby Sport

When it comes to recreational activities, I choose them carefully, based entirely on the potential for humiliation or injury.  And in the age of smart phones with good cameras, my humiliation won’t be limited to just a few lucky by-standers but could be posted to Youtube before I get finished dusting my pants off.

So, when The Viking first mentioned how much he enjoyed playing Darts I was, understandably, alarmed.  Playing Darts involves stabby things and that’s never a good idea for me.  You would think The Viking would know this by now – we’ve already established that I shouldn’t play with fire, automatic weapons, or knives.  As much as I would love to Fence, we all know that I would fumble the Foil and fall on it in a weird kind of Japanese ritual OR fumble the Foil and accidentally stab an observer.  It’s just in everyone’s best interest to keep stabby things out of my hands.

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that a Viking would like a Stabby Sport because it’s kind of in their genes, along with boating activities and looting churches.  To be fair though, I haven’t heard of any recent looting or even pillaging, so everyone should stay calm.

Anyway, The Viking hung up a Dart Board, gave me a Gin and Tonic*, handed me the stabby things and said, “Let’s play!”  Obviously, his enthusiasm for the sport over-rode his better judgment.

Of the first 6 Darts I threw, 3 missed the board and stabbed the wall, I dropped one which nearly impaled my right foot, one bounced off the cabinet and almost stabbed the cat, one stabbed my left boob and one hit the Bullseye.

I gave The Viking a look.

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Truth be told, it went better than I anticipated.  By the time we closed the cabinet there were only 6 stab holes in the wall, the cats were happily unstabbed, and the wound to my Jugular Vein was only superficial.

It’s still a good idea to have the First Aid Kit handy though, in case The Viking wants a rematch.

 

*What the fuck?!  The potential for a catastrophic event triples as soon as you give me booze.

He Who Laughs Last….

The Viking did something stupid.  You’re shocked, aren’t you?  Me, too!  He never does stupid things and I should feel better knowing that he is just as capable as I am even though he prefers not to exercise his ability as often as I do.  But I don’t feel better.  Not at the moment.  Because his Stupid caused me bodily injury that may end with amputation.

In our efforts to down-size and simplify, we sold our fifth-wheel trailer and my Seadoo.  We would have sold his Seadoo as well, but it has been upgraded and pimped out until no amateur should attempt to ride it.  The Viking blew it up twice in the space of two years and he’s an expert.  So, rather than sell the ‘Doo to a rookie, he decided to take it all apart, put in all the stock parts again and then sell it.  Except we suddenly got busy and there was no time to finish the job.  Meaning…..the garage is a maze of Seadoo parts and we have snowmobiles to work on!

So, we did what any reasonable people would do – we brought the guts of the Seadoo into the house so he has more room to work in the garage.  It is our bread and butter, after all.

Now, there is a pile of stuff right in the middle of the area where I spend 90% of my time.  And guess what?  I stubbed my fucking foot on the biggest and heaviest piece while I was hurrying to let Izzie outside.  She was shouting abuse and calling me names…..as usual.

“SHIT!  Sonofabitch!  Mo…erfu….er!  Stupid, fucking shit!  Ahhhhhhh!!” 

I’ve stubbed my toes many, many times before and the pain usually goes away after a few minutes.  Not this time.  This time the pain didn’t go away.  When The Viking came in the house, I informed him that his Stupid broke my toe.  He didn’t have any concern at all, so I pulled off my sock, plopped my leg on the kitchen counter and showed him my toe who was already busy turning purple.  He still didn’t seem concerned!

Am I living in ‘Bizarro World’?  My toe is turning purple!  If I didn’t live here I would have grounds to sue.  We’ve been binge-watching ‘Suits’ and I would totally have a case.

I stewed for several hours.  Watching ‘Suits’, of course.  I was hoping my toe was busy getting huge and ugly and alarming so he would feel terrible for not caring.  When The Viking got up to visit the bathroom I whipped off my sock to see how it was coming along.  That fucking traitor didn’t look any worse than it did 3 hours ago!  Curse my superior healing genes!!

I poked it a couple of times and explained that it needed to up its game.  I needed some sympathy, dammit!

Just before bed, I waved my toe in front of The Viking’s face.

Me: “I think it’s broken.  The knuckle closest to the toe nail.”

Him (not even looking): “That happens to me 10 times a day and I never even mention it.”

Me: “You always get sympathy!  I’m the most sympathetic asshole around!”

Him (not even looking): …….

I never should have told him what my father used to say…..”You know where to find sympathy?  Between Shit and Syphilis in the dictionary.”  Obviously, The Viking decided to pay attention to that one thing in all the other things I’ve said over the years.

Well, one good turn deserves another.  Just wait until he has an injury that may end in amputation!  I’m not going to even look at it.  I won’t even fetch a Band-Aid.  When he gets sick I’m not going to make him some Neo-Citran!  He could be on his deathbed and I’ll just go shopping or something.  I’ll make Mexican food* and eat it right in front of him when he has the Flu.  I’ll turn the heat down and refuse to get him a blanket!  That will teach him.  As he’s sitting there with chattering teeth I’ll just say “Remember my toe?  Touche!”

Except he’ll probably win the way he always does.  He’ll probably go and actually die and I won’t get any revenge at all!  That’s just how he rolls.  But he who laughs last…..

I’ll bury him with the things he hates the most – a snow shovel and cigarette butts and pumpkin pie and pancakes and every one of Michael Buble’s CDs!  I’ll make mashed potatoes instead of boiled potatoes to serve with the pork roast at his Memorial Service**!  And I won’t put his Battle Axe with him so he won’t be allowed in Valhalla!  How do you like my toe now?

 

*According to Mim, Mexican food is the worst when you’re nauseous.  She knows this because she made it for her husband when he had the flu because he had no sympathy for her when she was sick.  The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, did it?

**You probably won’t get this unless you’re Danish but serving mashed potatoes with pork roast is akin to murdering puppies.  Trust me.  I made this mistake once.  Once.  The Viking will roll in his grave!

Our Faces Are Trying to Kill Us

This is going to be a fast and dirty post so hang on to your panties/gaunch.

In the middle of last week, one of my teeth decided to be an asshole and host an infection party that probably included hookers and pimps and dope dealers.  The music was terrible and my TMJ started complaining bitterly.  Long story short, there was a trip to emergency where they pumped me full of antibiotics and ordered me to their HPTP clinic the following morning to be installed with a pump and bags of antibiotics.  I would have an extra appendage for the next four days.

I was positive that I deserved some pampering.  It’s not every day that I have the excuse of a massive infection to just loaf around the house being waited on hand and foot by The Viking.

Unfortunately, The Viking had other plans.  On the way home from Emergency he says:

“My neck hurts.”

Me:  Oh no you don’t!!  It’s my turn!  You always take over my illnesses.  I get a cold, you get a cold too, only worse so I have to take care of you even though I’m sick too.  Why do I always have to be the one that has to ‘soldier on’?  I want pampering!

Him:  I didn’t plan it, you know!

And he didn’t plan it, but it happened anyway.  The following morning his neck was swelling up quickly.  So, while I was getting my pump installed, he went to Emergency.  Once I was finished, I found him and we waited for the results.

Which said exactly nothing.  They sent him home with a preventative course of antibiotics but they didn’t think it was an issue.  In fact, the Doctor was sort of condescending.  Fast forward to Friday afternoon and we were back in Emergency and the Doctors were impressed at the size of the lump on the left side of The Viking’s neck. And it kept growing!  I think it was starting to develop its own brain.  They pumped him full of morphine and antibiotics and sent him for tests.

FYI……those people who ferry the ill back and forth to radiology are antelope.  They aren’t people at all.  They look like people but just try keeping up with them as you juggle your IV bags, 2 coats, a purse, a water bottle and 2 tablets.

I started to judge them on the length of their legs.  One Flamingo showed up and, I swear to Gawd, her legs were 8 feet long.

“Holy Shit!  You look like a ‘fast walker’ if I’ve ever seen one!”

She looked down on me.  “What?”

I mumbled “Nothing.  Please don’t lose me or I may starve to death in the maze that is this hospital.”

They laugh like I’m making a joke, but I’m not trying to be funny.  By the time we reach radiology, I’m bent over and sucking in air like a jet engine, my legs are shaking and I’m gasping out curses at fucking Olympic athletes loping around the gawd-damned hospital killing the innocent relatives of the fucking ill.  And then an orderly comes out and sees me about to pass out.  “Are you okay, Ma’am?”

“Do I fucking look okay?  I’ve just run a bloody marathon with Usain fucking Bolt and I’ve got my own IV nightmare going on if you don’t mind (I wave my IV’d left arm under his nose)!  Get me some water already!”

The rest of the time is spent in crushing boredom.  Fighting off my own infection, I was finding it difficult to cope with the length of time this was all taking.  I assumed they would fill him up with antibiotics and install a pump like they did with me.

That didn’t happen though.  They admitted him right into the hospital because they thought they could drain some of the infection and because they were starting to get alarmed at how quickly his head was building another entire person.  And then there were more trips down to radiology and more cursing.

The cats are pissed off.  Well, Teddy is just concerned but Izzie wants answers and someone to slap!  What the fuck is going on here?!  Where’s The Viking?  He always holds the spoon for me to lick.  You stink like Hospital – don’t touch me, that’s gross!  I chewed the container of chicken broth and made a mess.  That’s how pissed I am.

I gave them treats and tried to spoil them a bit.

The following morning there was a single paper towel on the kitchen floor with two small corner bits torn off.  As a communication it was brilliant.  They are still pissed but only this amount of pissed and not an entire roll of toilet paper pissed.  I thanked them both for their understanding and promised to be more attentive when I could.

Back at the hospital, The Viking was scheduled for yet another ultrasound.  The ferry person turned out to be a penguin and I dared to think that I might be able to keep up with her.  HA!  Her little legs were pumping like pistons as she careened around corners.  The Viking’s gown was riding up around his belly and IV lines were streaming behind like ribbons.  I was running to keep up, the Tic Tacs in my purse shaking like Maracas.  Finally, I had to yell at her….

“Wait a fucking minute….gasp….I have nerve damage….gasp….in my fucking leg….gasp….and I….gasp….can’t keep up!”  Gasp, gasp, gasp.

I heard a faint apology drifting back to me but she didn’t slow down at all.  Thank gawd she had to wait for an elevator.  When we arrived at our destination, The Viking smiles into my sweating face and says….

“You’re getting a little bit of exercise, Babe.”

….as he reclines comfortably, pushing his dressing gown to cover his sex area.

And that, my friends, is pure bravery coming from a man laying on a stretcher in a dressing gown that leaves his ass exposed.

 

 

A scab! On my nipple!

By now you probably know that I have been extra-ly blessed in the boob department. I don’t want to be ungrateful but they can be a total nuisance from time to time. Therefore, it shouldn’t come as too great a shock to know that I’ve had another Boob Incident.

I was making up gift baskets for our best customers; I make all sorts of homemade goodies and put them in lovely baskets and deliver them just before Christmas. And it was during the execution of baking the goodies that I suffered a terrible injury to my right nipple.

All the baking went well. Everything indicated a successful completion of 3 gift baskets and I was already starting to congratulate myself. All that remained to do was decorate the Gingerbread. I had it in the bag. This was easy, easy stuff. First, I needed to clean up the mixer tools so I could get the icing made, and that’s where the whole affair came off the rails.

It had been going so well….

  • I had managed to keep the amount of cookie dough in my bra to a minimum.
  • I hadn’t had a major spill of any sort.
  • I hadn’t severed a digit.
  • I didn’t break any glass.
  • Nothing was burned.
  • I hadn’t forgotten any ingredients – everything tasted perfect.
  • Nobody ate it all, behind my back.
  • I only had to make an extra trip to the store once.

So I was confident! Once everything was clean and dry, I started assembling the KitchenAid again. The batter tool snicked easily into place, but then……

The bowl wouldn’t turn, to lock in place. Why do they have to make these things so tight? Geezus! I grabbed the machine with my left arm so it wouldn’t turn when I tried to turn the bowl but it’s awkward and wouldn’t cooperate. Every attempt failed; the base, heavy as it is, would turn with the bowl. So I started cursing. Surprisingly, it didn’t help.

Then I put the base on the table, which is lower, so I could get my arm around it better. Nope. Fail. Obviously, two arms aren’t enough. Why is it being such an asshole? It’s been very good until now. Why. Won’t. It. Lock?!  Fucker!   I just want to make some damned icing!

So I put it on the floor between my feet but then I couldn’t get a good grip on the bowl. So I sat on the floor, wrapped my legs around the base, except to get a good grip on the bowl handle I needed to sort of lean over the machine. One boob went to the left of the top of the machine and one boob went to the right.

Fail.

Okay, you sonofabitch!! I got up on my knees and wedged the base between my thighs. I anchored my left arm around the top of the machine and gripped the bowl with my right hand. My cheek was squished against the side of the base. With a colossal effort I tried to twist it into submission but then my right hand slipped and the bowl snapped against the base…….and my RIGHT NIPPLE GOT PINCHED INBETWEEN! Mother#$%@er!! Sonofabitch! Shitface asshole bastard pisshead!!!

I flipped my shirt up and gingerly extracted my right boob from the bra. It was bleeding! My nipple was bleeding!!

The Viking walked through the door and stopped short. The KitchenAid was still wedged between my knees, the bowl cockeyed now. I had straightened my torso so I could see my injury; my shirt was up and my boob was out. Bleeding. I looked up at him – surprised. And if I’m honest, I probably looked like I was sitting on the mixer with a boob out, and some people may have misconstrued the entire situation. The Viking knows me well enough though……

Him: What the fuck are you doing?!

Me: Look!  My nipple is bleeding!!  I gestured with the boob.

Him: How in the fuck did you manage that?!

Me: This stupid, fucking, asshole, douchebag KitchenAid pinched my nipple off!

Him: Why do you have it on the floor?

Me: Because I couldn’t get the stupid, fucking, asshole, douchebag bowl to lock into place on the counter or on the table so I was wrestling with it on the floor where I could get a better grip on it!

Him: Why didn’t you bring it to me?

Me: And admit I can’t get a mixing bowl to lock into place on its base? Are you crazy?! Besides, it’s been working just fine until now!

Him: Give it to me.

So he picks the bowl and the mixer base up and puts it on the counter. I knew what was coming. I pursed my lips and nasty smeared across my face. And just like I knew it would be, The Viking, with the tip of his stupid, fucking, asshole, douchebag pinkie finger, flicked the bowl into the locked position then turned to look at me.

Me: You’re an asshole.

Him: Why? I was just trying to help.

Me: You could have tried helping before my nipple had to bleed.

Him: How could I possibly know that you were in a wrestling death match with the KitchenAid?

Me: I don’t know but you certainly know when to come in and catch me in the most compromising of positions.

Him: Do you need any help getting your boob back in the bra?

Me: This is not the time for you to be playing with my boob. Can’t you see it’s dying?

Him: I’ll be gentle.

Me: No! But you can help me off the floor.

By the next day there was a scab on my nipple. A scab! On my nipple! I considered writing KitchenAid a letter of complaint but then thought better of it. There just isn’t any way of explaining it without a loss of dignity.

The cookies turned out brilliantly. They were slightly soft with exactly the right amount of icing to make them completely delicious. My right nipple didn’t like them though and the KitchenAid is on the naughty list. Indefinitely.

The Apple Didn’t Fall Far From the Tree

I started doing laundry this morning, checked Facebook, scrolled through the mountain of emails I get every day, checked the admin page for my blog and then opened up a blank word document and waited for inspiration.

Nothing. Nada. Ingen ting.

I haven’t fallen down in the last few days, no one has wronged me, I haven’t had a colossal mishap in the kitchen, The Viking has been flying under the radar for days and I haven’t embarrassed myself in public in quite a long time. So I sat staring at the computer screen, hands poised on the keyboard, ready for even the smallest nugget so I could harness it before it flitted away.

via GIPHY

Nope. There really is nothing. I have a headache just above my right eye but that’s only interesting to my right eye. Even I’m bored with it. I stood in front of the family room window for a while, hoping something would happen. Sometimes I get lucky and the front doors of the Seniors Apartments, across the street, vomits out the cranky old lady with her yappy dog. That’s usually worth watching because she anchors her walker on the sidewalk and the dog lunges at passersby. The younger ones veer into the street to avoid the dog but the older ones become indignant about obstructions on public sidewalks and shouting matches erupt with lots of cane pointing and gesticulating. One time the canes became light sabres. I didn’t actually see it myself (of course), but our next door neighbour was happy to fill us in.

Today – nothing.

And then…..

DING!

A message from Mim. It was two pictures.

mims-hand    mims-hand-4

Her: “I’ve been impaled! And by that I mean I stabbed myself. With wire. At school*. The size to pain ratio on a puncture wound is like 1:1,000,000,000! It hurt sooooo bad! But it’s just this tiny little prick! In my defence, it did bleed pretty impressively but once I mopped up the initial flow my skin basically healed itself. And I wasn’t the only casualty of the day, nor the worst. One guy got it under his nail. Another guy sliced his hand with the chicken mesh and had blood smeared everywhere. It was a catastrophe. A blood bath! The worst part though….the guys were wounded while working. I was simply holding the wire in my hand and for some reason I made a fist. I don’t know why. I just made a fist and it went through gloves and flesh to an astonishing depth of about 5mm. I think my hand might need to be chopped off!”

via GIPHY

Me: “It’s the tiny wounds that hurt the most! I read your tale of injury to The Viking and he said “For Fucksakes!” which means that he has as much sympathy for you as he has for me. Zero. I think we should chloroform him and jab him with sharp objects so he can appreciate the puncture to pain ratio for himself. Was your Man sympathetic? Because I know how to make chloroform at home now and I can make enough for him as well. The trick, as always, is to chloroform them and not me.”

Her: “Hahaha! Brad actually was sympathetic. So was my teacher. They understand how painful steel is when it cuts. Linda almost broke her toe last week from tripping over sheets on the floor and I said I could definitely see how that could happen and Brad got so mad! Like actually started yelling that it was impossible to break your toe like that. I had to demonstrate it at home and even then he just shook his head and mumbled something about women. LOL!”

Hmmmm…….I haven’t met Linda yet but I’m sure that I’m going to love her. I tripped on a piece of lint on the carpet once and got rug rash on my forehead, the tip of my nose and my chin. If we have nothing else in common, swapping accident stories and comparing scars should occupy us for quite some time.

via GIPHY

So, I’ve been saved by my clumsy daughter and may have found a new best friend – all in the space of an hour or so. Without them I would still be staring at the blank computer screen, which worried me for a little while. If I don’t fall down or embarrass myself in public or fight with The Viking, am I mute? Is that the entire extent of my talent? Do I have nothing else to say?

…….

…….

Nah! This world is full of shit that can happen to me. It’s full of shit that I will misinterpret or misunderstand. It’s just full of shit and I am drawn to shit like a moth to a flame. Or a 5 year old to Knock Knock Jokes.