He Trumps Me, He Trumps Me Not
I thought I was going to get a day off. Not a whole day off. Just a got-a-cold, get-well kind of day off.
I was wrong.
You see, July 3rd was our tenth wedding anniversary. In the great tradition of our engagement, we went bed shopping. Back when Mike and I decided to marry, we began saving up for an engagement ring. Just when we had enough money to put a substantial down payment on a nice hunk of sparkly rock, Mike's bad back started acting up. We were sleeping on a cramped, old, rented double bed and Mike decided that a clean, factory new, queen sized bed would rectify what laser surgery on his disks had failed to.
Bad back trumps naked ring finger.
We bought the bed. I bitterly referred to it as "the engagement bed" and swore that I would fashion a chain to attach the bed to my finger and lug it around for all to see what my betrothed had given me. We did actually finance a small, cute, affordable little engagement ring for me with the promise that for our tenth anniversary we would do an upgrade.
Over the next ten years, while sleeping on that queen's bed, I would dream of our tenth anniversary. With our cherubic little angels looking on, Mike would get down on one knee and present to me an brilliant, diamond studded token of his affection, professing his unwavering commitment and deepening love. Romance would be thick in the air. Roses on the table. Barry White on the speakers. Champagne and strawberries. Maybe even he'd whisk me away for a weekend in downtown Waikiki, the place of our honeymoon.
But ten years of wedding bliss has broken down the engagement bed and Mike's back has never been worse. Bad back trumps anniversary band.
We went shopping for a king sized bed this anniversary, lugging our two demonic offspring from furniture store to furniture store. The anniversary bed is king sized, a true step up from the engagement bed. And it's one of those Serta Sleepers, guaranteed to induce sleep despite having a suckling infant attached to one boob all night long. Or at least that is what the salesperson alluded to.
Mike did present to me a small, cute, affordable, little Hawaiian plumeria ring with the smallest little sparkle of a diamond in the middle. It's really all a girl could ask for. I mean, throw in a Hawaiian cruise with a spa day and a $1,000 clothing allowance and I'm the Queen herself, ya know?
We had invited a couple and their year old daughter over for barbecue and margaritas on the 4th. Since we were out hunting for the perfect anniversary bed the day before, we hadn't had time for the typical pre-guests spot dusting and vacuum running. I set about that task in the early morning, 4th of July while Mike and the kids breakfasted.
Somehow, and I'm not clear exactly on the events that transpired, Roman poked Mike in the eye. Immediately Mike had to go back to bed for several hours. Now, here I was tired, cranky, and suffering from post traumatic anniversary stress and Mike was back in bed with a bum eye. I was starting to wonder how early in the morning I needed to get up in order to be able to go back to bed.
He eventually did get up and enjoyed the day with us and our guests. The kids played. The adults ate and drank. We watched the fireworks on the beach and almost got arrested for loitering (long story -- Let freedom ring). It was a nice 4th.
The next morning, however, when I awoke, I felt a tightening in my chest, indicating an impending cold. I swallowed and it stung. I sneezed and my nose ran like a loose faucet. My ears were ringing and I just felt like hell.
"HA!!!" thought I. "Today is the day that I will get to sleep in. Today is the day that I will nap and laze around in bed. Today!! Today is MY day to be sick and moan and groan and get cared for. Today is MY SICK DAY!"
"Uhhhh..." groaned Mike. "You better take a look at my eye. It hurts like hell."
I look over and Mike's entire eye, the eye that Roman poked him in, was crusted over with goo. What little I could see of his actual eye, was an angry, blood red. He could hardly keep it open.
"I think you better take me to the ER."
Scratched cornea trumps common cold.
And so that is how I spent my sick day. In the ER entertaining our two small children with Elmo toys and fruity snacks. Bribing them with juice boxes, lollipops, and promises of movies and Chuck E Cheese.
At one point a nice older lady comes up to Reilly Kate and asks, "Who's sick? You or your brother?"
"Daddy's back hurts," was Reilly's response.
"Oh, your Daddy is seeing the doctor because his back hurts?" the old lady queried.
Reilly nodded. "His knee hurts, too," Reilly Kate informed her.
"His back and his knee? They both hurt?" she asked.
"Yep."
"So is the doctor making his back and his knee feel better?" asked the woman.
"No. The doctor is making his eye feel better. His back still hurts." Reilly is well versed now.
The woman looked at me for confirmation and all I did was laugh and nod. That's all I could do. I still didn't feel very well myself.
On the drive home from the hospital, Mike informed me that they prescribed Vicodin for the pain and that when we got home he'd be taking one and going to bed.
"But I'm really sick. I wanted to take a nap." I was desperately pleading now.
"They told me I have to lay down in a dark room and rest my eye for a couple of days," Mike explained with blood red, tear filled eyes. I really did feel sorry for him. His eye looked horrible.
So he went to bed. I stayed up with the kids and suffered through a cold that really wasn't half as bad as I had hoped it would be. I did get a little nap later in the afternoon. A nap with a suckling infant attached to one boob and a toddler sprawled out in more than her fair share of the queen sized engagement bed. Not much of nap really.
Of course, this brings me back to my need for a body cast. I will have to get up in the morning, earlier than Mike. Say about 4am. Then throw myself down the stairs. What I'm banking on is a couple of broken ribs and maybe a sprained ankle. Oh, a nice slight concussion would work well. I'll have to do it, though, when Mike isn't having surgery. I'm quite certain back surgery and knee surgery trumps self induced superficial injuries.
Anybody know where I can get a body cast?
I was wrong.
You see, July 3rd was our tenth wedding anniversary. In the great tradition of our engagement, we went bed shopping. Back when Mike and I decided to marry, we began saving up for an engagement ring. Just when we had enough money to put a substantial down payment on a nice hunk of sparkly rock, Mike's bad back started acting up. We were sleeping on a cramped, old, rented double bed and Mike decided that a clean, factory new, queen sized bed would rectify what laser surgery on his disks had failed to.
Bad back trumps naked ring finger.
We bought the bed. I bitterly referred to it as "the engagement bed" and swore that I would fashion a chain to attach the bed to my finger and lug it around for all to see what my betrothed had given me. We did actually finance a small, cute, affordable little engagement ring for me with the promise that for our tenth anniversary we would do an upgrade.
Over the next ten years, while sleeping on that queen's bed, I would dream of our tenth anniversary. With our cherubic little angels looking on, Mike would get down on one knee and present to me an brilliant, diamond studded token of his affection, professing his unwavering commitment and deepening love. Romance would be thick in the air. Roses on the table. Barry White on the speakers. Champagne and strawberries. Maybe even he'd whisk me away for a weekend in downtown Waikiki, the place of our honeymoon.
But ten years of wedding bliss has broken down the engagement bed and Mike's back has never been worse. Bad back trumps anniversary band.
We went shopping for a king sized bed this anniversary, lugging our two demonic offspring from furniture store to furniture store. The anniversary bed is king sized, a true step up from the engagement bed. And it's one of those Serta Sleepers, guaranteed to induce sleep despite having a suckling infant attached to one boob all night long. Or at least that is what the salesperson alluded to.
Mike did present to me a small, cute, affordable, little Hawaiian plumeria ring with the smallest little sparkle of a diamond in the middle. It's really all a girl could ask for. I mean, throw in a Hawaiian cruise with a spa day and a $1,000 clothing allowance and I'm the Queen herself, ya know?
We had invited a couple and their year old daughter over for barbecue and margaritas on the 4th. Since we were out hunting for the perfect anniversary bed the day before, we hadn't had time for the typical pre-guests spot dusting and vacuum running. I set about that task in the early morning, 4th of July while Mike and the kids breakfasted.
Somehow, and I'm not clear exactly on the events that transpired, Roman poked Mike in the eye. Immediately Mike had to go back to bed for several hours. Now, here I was tired, cranky, and suffering from post traumatic anniversary stress and Mike was back in bed with a bum eye. I was starting to wonder how early in the morning I needed to get up in order to be able to go back to bed.
He eventually did get up and enjoyed the day with us and our guests. The kids played. The adults ate and drank. We watched the fireworks on the beach and almost got arrested for loitering (long story -- Let freedom ring). It was a nice 4th.
The next morning, however, when I awoke, I felt a tightening in my chest, indicating an impending cold. I swallowed and it stung. I sneezed and my nose ran like a loose faucet. My ears were ringing and I just felt like hell.
"HA!!!" thought I. "Today is the day that I will get to sleep in. Today is the day that I will nap and laze around in bed. Today!! Today is MY day to be sick and moan and groan and get cared for. Today is MY SICK DAY!"
"Uhhhh..." groaned Mike. "You better take a look at my eye. It hurts like hell."
I look over and Mike's entire eye, the eye that Roman poked him in, was crusted over with goo. What little I could see of his actual eye, was an angry, blood red. He could hardly keep it open.
"I think you better take me to the ER."
Scratched cornea trumps common cold.
And so that is how I spent my sick day. In the ER entertaining our two small children with Elmo toys and fruity snacks. Bribing them with juice boxes, lollipops, and promises of movies and Chuck E Cheese.
At one point a nice older lady comes up to Reilly Kate and asks, "Who's sick? You or your brother?"
"Daddy's back hurts," was Reilly's response.
"Oh, your Daddy is seeing the doctor because his back hurts?" the old lady queried.
Reilly nodded. "His knee hurts, too," Reilly Kate informed her.
"His back and his knee? They both hurt?" she asked.
"Yep."
"So is the doctor making his back and his knee feel better?" asked the woman.
"No. The doctor is making his eye feel better. His back still hurts." Reilly is well versed now.
The woman looked at me for confirmation and all I did was laugh and nod. That's all I could do. I still didn't feel very well myself.
On the drive home from the hospital, Mike informed me that they prescribed Vicodin for the pain and that when we got home he'd be taking one and going to bed.
"But I'm really sick. I wanted to take a nap." I was desperately pleading now.
"They told me I have to lay down in a dark room and rest my eye for a couple of days," Mike explained with blood red, tear filled eyes. I really did feel sorry for him. His eye looked horrible.
So he went to bed. I stayed up with the kids and suffered through a cold that really wasn't half as bad as I had hoped it would be. I did get a little nap later in the afternoon. A nap with a suckling infant attached to one boob and a toddler sprawled out in more than her fair share of the queen sized engagement bed. Not much of nap really.
Of course, this brings me back to my need for a body cast. I will have to get up in the morning, earlier than Mike. Say about 4am. Then throw myself down the stairs. What I'm banking on is a couple of broken ribs and maybe a sprained ankle. Oh, a nice slight concussion would work well. I'll have to do it, though, when Mike isn't having surgery. I'm quite certain back surgery and knee surgery trumps self induced superficial injuries.
Anybody know where I can get a body cast?
posted by The Histrionics of a Fat Housewife at 2:18 AM
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