Saturday morning, I got up, filled with hope that it would be a good day. Not. Even. Close.
Tim is addicted to Starbucks coffee (okay, I am too, but I settle for the home brew, his highness has to have the real McCoy), so since he is recovering from knee surgery, I decided to raise his spirits by running out and getting a couple of ventis.
As I headed down the steps into the garage, I half-turned to talk to the dog (I know, I know, but these days, she is the only one who will listen to me whine) and slipped down the last two steps, landing right on my butt on the 2x4 that makes up the one side of the stairs. Not. Good.
As I sat astride the plank, educating Chloe to every swear word I know and wishing that I spoke another language so I could teach her even more swear words, all I could think was: Unless Chloe can carry me into the house or dial 911, I am going to die here. In the garage. Sitting on the steps. In my PJ top, sweats and Tim's jacket (hey, it's a look), while Tim mummifies up in the bed, just steps away from the phone he can't reach.
Days from now, someone will say,"Whatever happened to the Sinclairs?" and then a neighbor will call about a bad smell and an unusual amount of flies swarming around the house.
I began to wonder if I could teach Chloe how to bark, "My mom has fallen and she can't get up" in Morse Code, but then I realized I didn't have any treats, so...that wasn't going to happen. Besides, I don't actually know Morse code, so it probably wouldn't have worked anyway.
As I moved on to more positive scenarios in my head of Tim and I side by side in bed (like Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dumber), splitting a bag of ice and alternating the use of the heating pad, competing over who can do more leg lifts in PT, battling for control of the remote, fighting over whose turn it was to use the walker, and duking it out over the last Percoset, I realized that I was not only going to survive, but that I could actually walk again.
I grudgingly decided to forge ahead with my mission, and drove to Starbucks where I ordered three ventis. (Hey, I not only needed two, I deserved them at this point). The woman poured one , plunked it down on the counter and walked away while the other woman rang it up.
"Venti?" she said.
Duh. A. You were standing six inches away when I ordered it, B. If you work here and don't know which cup is a venti, then you are probably too stupid to even be breathing, and C. (this I said aloud) "Yes. Three."
I even held up three fingers which she ignored while she blithely rang up the one.
"Twelve thousand dollars," she announced (This was Starbucks, after all)
"I need three," I reiterated, but made the mistake of handing her the money for all of them.
"Oh. Uh." She looked from the money to the register as though I had handed her a Rubik's cube and asked her to solve it while simultaneously explaining Einstein's theory of relativity in German.
"Why don't you just charge me for the one, then ring up two more," I suggested, almost, but not quite able to stop rolling my eyes.
"Um..."
Apparently, my suggestion was not computing in her razor-sharp mind, but like a dog with a bone, she was not going to give up. (If I wave a white flag, will you do the same? Pretty please with cream and sugar on top? How about if I just cry?)
Fifteen excruciatingly painful minutes later, I stumbled out of the Starbucks with my three ventis, and maybe the correct change, but I couldn't see past the tears in my eyes to count it as I wept for the future.
Thinking that taking the dog for a nice long walk would clear my mind and help me shake off the morning's events, I grabbed her leash and we headed out. (Okay, I actually thought that crawling back into bed and pulling the covers over my head would help, but I was guilted into the walk by a pair of big, brown eyes and a cute little button nose).
We got exactly halfway around the block when nature called and Chloe squatted in some leaves. I leaned down with my little baggie at the ready, but couldn't find anything...because it was stuck to her furry little backside. Eewww.
And to make the experience even better and more memorable, she plopped her little butt down on the pavement before I could stop her and I had a poopy puppy.
Somehow, yelling "NO!" For all that is holy STOP!!" after the fact seemed a bit useless, so I settled for pounding my head against the pavement and ripping out significant chunks of hair.
After carrying her the rest of the way home in order to limit the damage (to her, but apparently not my sweatshirt), I plunked her in the tub to try and scrub off eight pounds of dog poo (Seriously, how can something that small poop out that much?). I had barely begun when the phone rang.
"Can you get that?" Tim yelled in to me.
Some days, it just doesn't pay to get out of bed.
Showing posts with label accidents. Show all posts
Showing posts with label accidents. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Friday, July 17, 2009
Happy Anniversary
In honor of its tenth anniversary next month, Blogger has invited people to write about the role blogging plays in their life. Apparently, some people use their blogs to help them find a job, keep in touch with family and friends, form support groups and even showcase their talents.
Not me. I keep a blog because this month is my twenty-second wedding anniversary, and, after twenty-two years of listening to me ramble on about the latest disaster to befall me, Tim has finally managed, with much diligent practice, to tune me out. I'm convinced that when I talk, it's like the teacher in the Charlie Brown cartoons. All he hears is, "wah-wah, wah wah. "
I would share my woes with my friends, but, well, then I would have no friends, so in the end, keeping a blog is cheaper than therapy.
I guess I can't blame Tim too much though, because I do seem to have more than my share of issues with cable companies, phone companies, computers (okay, technology in general), planes, trains, automobiles and, oh yeah, inanimate objects.
The first few years we were married, Tim was very sympathetic to whatever my latest plight was. For example, when my new car developed a personality of its own, sort of like Stephen King's Christine, he was there for me.
As I rode down the street, Christine Jr. would decide she didn't feel like listening to rock, and change the channel to, say, rap or maybe talk radio, never anything I would even remotely, under pain of death, be interested in.
I would try changing it back. Christine Jr. ignored my request. I tried changing it to something else, anything else, before I had to either slit my wrists or become Vanilla Ice's number one fan. Christine Jr. decided to go with a solid, "no way". Finally, in total frustration, I would turn the radio off completely. Or not. Use of the button depended on whether or not Christine Jr. was finished with getting me to appreciate the finer points of the latest Milli Vanilli song.
As if that wasn't enough, Christine Jr. also taunted me by randomly locking and unlocking the doors. Bad neighborhood? Unlock! (he he he) Stopping to get gas? Oooooh, too bad for you. Lock! Hey, just so you know, you can push those buttons all day. Nobody tells me what to do!
Naturally, when I took her into the shop, there wasn't a thing wrong with her. Oh no, I was the crazy one. Tim took my side though against Christine Jr., and helped me exorcise her (okay, so we traded her in...and I could only hope it was some smug, know-it-all mechanic who somehow got saddled with her).
As the years have passed though, Tim has come to accept situations such as this to be the norm, sort of like Darrin accepted Samantha, Major Nelson, Jeannie, or Ricky did Lucy; you know, calm, cool and collected.
Latest case in point was a few weeks ago on the train to NYC.
Tim had forgotten his ipod, so I insisted on getting a splitter and second set of earbuds so we could share mine. As we settled into our seats, Tim opened his newspaper and began reading. I began setting up base camp.
First: shelter. Knowing from past experience that Amtrak has somehow gotten the idea that they are transporting sides of beef as opposed to people in the cars, I came prepared with a jacket and a pashmina, which I proceeded to wrap myself in, mummy-like.
Second: food. The only thing worse than airline food is train food. Reheated, microwaved chicken. Rubber ball. Enough said. So, I pulled down my tray table and foraged in my Mary Poppins-like bag for my stash of cookies, pretzels, honey-roasted almonds and bagel. That should be just about enough for a few hours. About this time, they came through offering beverages, so I took a coffee and added it to the growing pile.
Third: necessities of life. I rooted out my copy of the latest People magazine, blackberry, hand sanitizer, reading glasses, tic-tacs, ipod, and kindle. Now I was ready to enjoy the ride.
Over Tim's objections that he had plenty to occupy him (please, he only had a few measly newspapers and his blackberry, the equivalent of going on a week's vacation with only a toothbrush and single change of underwear), I began setting up the ipod. And that is when the curse struck.
Somehow, through no fault of my own, the cords and wires had become inextricably tangled into one giant mess. Patiently, I worked at the knots, snaking an earbud through here and a prong under there. I threaded, tugged and pulled for a good ten minutes. Tim just rolled his eyes and hid behind his paper as though that would make him invisible.
After another fruitless few minutes (seriously, how do neatly coiled cords become so entangled? Are there little purse gnomes that get their jollies out of stuff like this?) I decided I needed to get a fresh perspective and tried to recline my seat a bit (yeah, more room was going to magically untangle the cords--I remember learning that my first year of high school physics).
I pressed the button and pushed back, and...nothing. I used two thumbs to press the button...still nothing. I used four fingers and a forearm...and still nothing. I tried just the middle finger which I knew wouldn't work, but it made me feel better, and flung myself back against the seat like a battering ram...once again, nothing.
Finally, Tim could ignore it no longer, and with a muttered oath, he stood up, leaned across the seat and tried to muscle the seat down. It moved a whole quarter of an inch...and so did my coffee, right onto my lap.
You see...disaster. And that is why I keep a blog.
Not me. I keep a blog because this month is my twenty-second wedding anniversary, and, after twenty-two years of listening to me ramble on about the latest disaster to befall me, Tim has finally managed, with much diligent practice, to tune me out. I'm convinced that when I talk, it's like the teacher in the Charlie Brown cartoons. All he hears is, "wah-wah, wah wah. "
I would share my woes with my friends, but, well, then I would have no friends, so in the end, keeping a blog is cheaper than therapy.
I guess I can't blame Tim too much though, because I do seem to have more than my share of issues with cable companies, phone companies, computers (okay, technology in general), planes, trains, automobiles and, oh yeah, inanimate objects.
The first few years we were married, Tim was very sympathetic to whatever my latest plight was. For example, when my new car developed a personality of its own, sort of like Stephen King's Christine, he was there for me.
As I rode down the street, Christine Jr. would decide she didn't feel like listening to rock, and change the channel to, say, rap or maybe talk radio, never anything I would even remotely, under pain of death, be interested in.
I would try changing it back. Christine Jr. ignored my request. I tried changing it to something else, anything else, before I had to either slit my wrists or become Vanilla Ice's number one fan. Christine Jr. decided to go with a solid, "no way". Finally, in total frustration, I would turn the radio off completely. Or not. Use of the button depended on whether or not Christine Jr. was finished with getting me to appreciate the finer points of the latest Milli Vanilli song.
As if that wasn't enough, Christine Jr. also taunted me by randomly locking and unlocking the doors. Bad neighborhood? Unlock! (he he he) Stopping to get gas? Oooooh, too bad for you. Lock! Hey, just so you know, you can push those buttons all day. Nobody tells me what to do!
Naturally, when I took her into the shop, there wasn't a thing wrong with her. Oh no, I was the crazy one. Tim took my side though against Christine Jr., and helped me exorcise her (okay, so we traded her in...and I could only hope it was some smug, know-it-all mechanic who somehow got saddled with her).
As the years have passed though, Tim has come to accept situations such as this to be the norm, sort of like Darrin accepted Samantha, Major Nelson, Jeannie, or Ricky did Lucy; you know, calm, cool and collected.
Latest case in point was a few weeks ago on the train to NYC.
Tim had forgotten his ipod, so I insisted on getting a splitter and second set of earbuds so we could share mine. As we settled into our seats, Tim opened his newspaper and began reading. I began setting up base camp.
First: shelter. Knowing from past experience that Amtrak has somehow gotten the idea that they are transporting sides of beef as opposed to people in the cars, I came prepared with a jacket and a pashmina, which I proceeded to wrap myself in, mummy-like.
Second: food. The only thing worse than airline food is train food. Reheated, microwaved chicken. Rubber ball. Enough said. So, I pulled down my tray table and foraged in my Mary Poppins-like bag for my stash of cookies, pretzels, honey-roasted almonds and bagel. That should be just about enough for a few hours. About this time, they came through offering beverages, so I took a coffee and added it to the growing pile.
Third: necessities of life. I rooted out my copy of the latest People magazine, blackberry, hand sanitizer, reading glasses, tic-tacs, ipod, and kindle. Now I was ready to enjoy the ride.
Over Tim's objections that he had plenty to occupy him (please, he only had a few measly newspapers and his blackberry, the equivalent of going on a week's vacation with only a toothbrush and single change of underwear), I began setting up the ipod. And that is when the curse struck.
Somehow, through no fault of my own, the cords and wires had become inextricably tangled into one giant mess. Patiently, I worked at the knots, snaking an earbud through here and a prong under there. I threaded, tugged and pulled for a good ten minutes. Tim just rolled his eyes and hid behind his paper as though that would make him invisible.
After another fruitless few minutes (seriously, how do neatly coiled cords become so entangled? Are there little purse gnomes that get their jollies out of stuff like this?) I decided I needed to get a fresh perspective and tried to recline my seat a bit (yeah, more room was going to magically untangle the cords--I remember learning that my first year of high school physics).
I pressed the button and pushed back, and...nothing. I used two thumbs to press the button...still nothing. I used four fingers and a forearm...and still nothing. I tried just the middle finger which I knew wouldn't work, but it made me feel better, and flung myself back against the seat like a battering ram...once again, nothing.
Finally, Tim could ignore it no longer, and with a muttered oath, he stood up, leaned across the seat and tried to muscle the seat down. It moved a whole quarter of an inch...and so did my coffee, right onto my lap.
You see...disaster. And that is why I keep a blog.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
From Bad to Worse
I begged Tim. I pleaded. I scolded, nagged and even berated him. Nothing worked. He still continued to tromp in through the back door onto my carpet without taking his dirty, wet sneakers off. So I locked the back door.
It was Sunday and there were two guys outside power-washing the house, porches and deck. Tim, myself and our twenty-three year old nephew, George, were trying to facilitate things by moving the porch furniture off and then back on to the porch. The off part was easy. George and I had done most of it earlier that morning. We were just waiting for it to dry out enough to move the stuff back on.
Tim, on the other hand, was mucking about with the grill, the shed, the utility area and God only knows what else. He was in looking for a cleaner. Back out. In for paper towels. Back out. In for a garbage bag. Soda. Phone. Snack. In. Out. In. Out. Not to mention the fact that he kept leaving the back door open. A blatant invitation for every bug in a three mile radius to sashay in and take a stab at me! So I finally, firmly closed, then locked the back door.
Soon enough, the porch was dry and the three of us headed out the front door. Tim. Myself. George...who pulled the front door shut behind him.
Tim whirled around. "You did not just shut that door."
"Uh oh. Yeah."
The three of us looked at each other, knowing it had automatically locked.
"Tell me we can get in the back door," Tim demanded, turning on me.
"We could if you had listened to me just once and taken off your sneakers," I defended myself. George wisely backed away and looked for a nice, cozy hole to crawl into.
Deep breaths.
"Does our next door neighbor still have a key?" Tim asked hopefully.
"She did until recently when she was having work done in her house and gave it back to me so that nobody could get into our house," I answered, daring Tim with a look to point out the irony.
"How about the guy across the street?" (our neighbor and friend)
"Nope. But, hey, wasn't he with some special unit in the military?" I enquired as inspiration struck. "Maybe he knows how to pick a lock like McGyver!"
Tim threw me a withering glance.
Hey! Like this is my fault, Mr. I-can't-be-bothered-to-take-off-my-sneakers?
More deep breaths.
"What time is it?" he tried another tack. George and I both held up bare wrists. "Where are all our cell phones?" he asked, already knowing the answer. We all looked at the closed, locked door.
"We'll use the neighbor's phone and call Rose,"he decided.
"Duh. She's getting her hair done or else she'd be here locked out right alongside us." Okay, so maybe I shouldn't have pushed it.
He actually couldn't breathe any deeper at this point, so he settled for gritting his teeth.
"Fine. Then we'll call a cab, and I'll go to the salon and get the keys from her. Now, who has their wallet with them?"
Was he kidding?? We were moving patio furniture around the yard, had no watches or cell phones, but he thought we had our wallets tucked away in our sweats? Now that was reaching.
"Does Tom have a key?" (last resort since he lives a good thirty minutes away)
"Uh, maybe. He did, but I'm not sure if his key is from before or after we changed the lock."
George was now looking for a major mound of dirt to pull in on himself after he got to the bottom of his hole.
"Do you think you could possibly go next door and try calling either Rose or Tom to see if they can come and let us in?"
I was going to suggest that he do it, but I decided it would be nice if the neighbors didn't witness a murder/suicide. I dutifully trotted next door.
"Of course you can use my phone. You should give me a key in case this happens again," she said. I didn't bother to point out that I had given her a key, but she had given it back!!!"
Since it is one of the few numbers I know by heart, I dialed Rose...and got her voicemail. I tried again...and got her voicemail again. I tried Tom at home...and got his voicemail. I couldn't remember his cell, so I went out and yelled across the fence for Tim...who chose not to hear me. I yelled louder. He was still playing deaf. So I had to go down the steps, over and up the steps to get Tom's number in person.
Miracle of miracles, he actually answered.
"Honey," I began without preamble, "do you have a key to our house?"
"What?"
"Do you have a key to our house?"
"A key? What do you mean?"
I wanted to beat him to death. "This is not a hard question...yes or no. Do...you...have...a...key...to...our...house?!" I enunciated each word with excruciating clarity.
"Uh, I think so," he didn't sound too convincing. "Why do you want to know if I have a key to our house?"
"Our house?" I repeated blankly.
"Yes, our house," he confirmed.
"Not your house. our house," I was getting exasperated again.
"Annie?" finally the light dawned.
"Yes."
"Oh, I'm outside. I thought you were Beth calling to ask me if I had a key!"
"Why would...never mind. Do you or do you not have a key to my house?"
"I guess. Hey, by the way, Rose just called here complaining that you people aren't answering your house phone or cell phones."
Counting to ten, I answered, "Yes. I know. That's because all the phones are LOCKED IN THE HOUSE!!! Now, do have a key or not?"
"Oh yeah. I have a key to your house. I'll be right up (yeah, in half an hour)...How did you get locked out?"
"It's a long story..."
It was Sunday and there were two guys outside power-washing the house, porches and deck. Tim, myself and our twenty-three year old nephew, George, were trying to facilitate things by moving the porch furniture off and then back on to the porch. The off part was easy. George and I had done most of it earlier that morning. We were just waiting for it to dry out enough to move the stuff back on.
Tim, on the other hand, was mucking about with the grill, the shed, the utility area and God only knows what else. He was in looking for a cleaner. Back out. In for paper towels. Back out. In for a garbage bag. Soda. Phone. Snack. In. Out. In. Out. Not to mention the fact that he kept leaving the back door open. A blatant invitation for every bug in a three mile radius to sashay in and take a stab at me! So I finally, firmly closed, then locked the back door.
Soon enough, the porch was dry and the three of us headed out the front door. Tim. Myself. George...who pulled the front door shut behind him.
Tim whirled around. "You did not just shut that door."
"Uh oh. Yeah."
The three of us looked at each other, knowing it had automatically locked.
"Tell me we can get in the back door," Tim demanded, turning on me.
"We could if you had listened to me just once and taken off your sneakers," I defended myself. George wisely backed away and looked for a nice, cozy hole to crawl into.
Deep breaths.
"Does our next door neighbor still have a key?" Tim asked hopefully.
"She did until recently when she was having work done in her house and gave it back to me so that nobody could get into our house," I answered, daring Tim with a look to point out the irony.
"How about the guy across the street?" (our neighbor and friend)
"Nope. But, hey, wasn't he with some special unit in the military?" I enquired as inspiration struck. "Maybe he knows how to pick a lock like McGyver!"
Tim threw me a withering glance.
Hey! Like this is my fault, Mr. I-can't-be-bothered-to-take-off-my-sneakers?
More deep breaths.
"What time is it?" he tried another tack. George and I both held up bare wrists. "Where are all our cell phones?" he asked, already knowing the answer. We all looked at the closed, locked door.
"We'll use the neighbor's phone and call Rose,"he decided.
"Duh. She's getting her hair done or else she'd be here locked out right alongside us." Okay, so maybe I shouldn't have pushed it.
He actually couldn't breathe any deeper at this point, so he settled for gritting his teeth.
"Fine. Then we'll call a cab, and I'll go to the salon and get the keys from her. Now, who has their wallet with them?"
Was he kidding?? We were moving patio furniture around the yard, had no watches or cell phones, but he thought we had our wallets tucked away in our sweats? Now that was reaching.
"Does Tom have a key?" (last resort since he lives a good thirty minutes away)
"Uh, maybe. He did, but I'm not sure if his key is from before or after we changed the lock."
George was now looking for a major mound of dirt to pull in on himself after he got to the bottom of his hole.
"Do you think you could possibly go next door and try calling either Rose or Tom to see if they can come and let us in?"
I was going to suggest that he do it, but I decided it would be nice if the neighbors didn't witness a murder/suicide. I dutifully trotted next door.
"Of course you can use my phone. You should give me a key in case this happens again," she said. I didn't bother to point out that I had given her a key, but she had given it back!!!"
Since it is one of the few numbers I know by heart, I dialed Rose...and got her voicemail. I tried again...and got her voicemail again. I tried Tom at home...and got his voicemail. I couldn't remember his cell, so I went out and yelled across the fence for Tim...who chose not to hear me. I yelled louder. He was still playing deaf. So I had to go down the steps, over and up the steps to get Tom's number in person.
Miracle of miracles, he actually answered.
"Honey," I began without preamble, "do you have a key to our house?"
"What?"
"Do you have a key to our house?"
"A key? What do you mean?"
I wanted to beat him to death. "This is not a hard question...yes or no. Do...you...have...a...key...to...our...house?!" I enunciated each word with excruciating clarity.
"Uh, I think so," he didn't sound too convincing. "Why do you want to know if I have a key to our house?"
"Our house?" I repeated blankly.
"Yes, our house," he confirmed.
"Not your house. our house," I was getting exasperated again.
"Annie?" finally the light dawned.
"Yes."
"Oh, I'm outside. I thought you were Beth calling to ask me if I had a key!"
"Why would...never mind. Do you or do you not have a key to my house?"
"I guess. Hey, by the way, Rose just called here complaining that you people aren't answering your house phone or cell phones."
Counting to ten, I answered, "Yes. I know. That's because all the phones are LOCKED IN THE HOUSE!!! Now, do have a key or not?"
"Oh yeah. I have a key to your house. I'll be right up (yeah, in half an hour)...How did you get locked out?"
"It's a long story..."
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
It Had Better Be Broken
Friday afternoon we drove to Pennsylvania to spend the weekend with my family. My dad limped to the door on an ankle that looked like he was smuggling a grapefruit under the skin, explaining that he had fallen down the attic stairs a few hours earlier. It took some doing, but we convinced him to go to the emergency room to have it checked out. Our mistake.
Upon arrival, we were told that there would be a two hour wait to see the doctor. Oh goody. Two hours in a waiting room filled with people who were hacking, sneezing, wheezing, whining, moaning and complaining. I wish we were that lucky.
Finding four seats together, we all sat down, and Tim, my mother and I all pulled out our ipods, intending to turn on, tune in and drop out. My father found a three day old newspaper and checked out the obits, looking to see how many of them had expired in the waiting room of the ER.
My sister, who was at a local fair, began texting me, so I turned over my ipod to my father, thinking a few games of Parking Lot would take his mind off his ankle, which he was still insisting was not broken. Being the anally logical person he is, I figured a game that consisted of moving cars around to free the one yellow car in the back would be right up his alley. Not even close.
"Why can't you move the cars sideways?" he grumbled, repeatedly trying to slide a limo across the screen.
Um, cause Henry Ford foolishly put wheels on cars that only had the ability to go forward and backward?
"This one is impossible," he growled, somewhere around move 287, still trying to push the offending cars sideways. Then, "I don't even know why we're here. It's only a sprain."
I knew we would never hear the end of it if it wasn't really broken.
On the other side of me was my mother, who was watching an old Judy Garland movie on her itouch, and periodically making comments like, "Boy, this place is crowded" and "Honestly, those people over there are soooo noisy", at the top of her lungs. I had to keep explaining that she was the one with the earbuds, and the rest of us could hear her just fine if she spoke in her normal "indoor voice". It really wasn't necessary to compete with the ambulance siren to see who could be louder.
Then there were the two girls across the room who had obviously mistaken this for the waiting room at the American Idol tryouts, and were serenading everyone with renditions of currents hits that made William Hueng sound like Placido Domingo. Even Paula would have been telling them to give it up.
Into this mix, about every fifteen minutes or so, a nurse would come into the waiting room with a clipboard and call out a name to which no one would respond. A beat. Call the name again. Another beat. Try once more. Finally, someone would say, "I think they already took that person back." A shrug. Last look around, as though the person they were paging might be playing hard to get and hiding under a sofa cushion, then they would amble off until it was time to come back in and call the next name to which nobody would respond. Way to stay on top of things, guys. Hey, if you can't find the elderly man with chest pain, you might want to check the maternity wing.
An hour or so into the fun and games, a nurse came in and gave my father a bright pink badge to wear, explaining that it was so that they could "track" his location. Yeah. Is that the same system you've been using to keep track of all the other patients? Because if it is, I gotta tell you it isn't working so well. Ever think of switching to Lojac?
Finally though, someone came out and called my father's name. Still grumbling and insisting that he didn't need to be at the hospital for a sprained ankle, he disappeared into the mysterious "back room".
Shortly thereafter, my sister arrived (she didn't want us to have all the fun) and managed to get into the back with my mom to see what was going on. At this point, we were all pretty much in agreement that if the ankle wasn't really broken, we would be subjected to such excruciatingly painful hours of , "I told you so", that it would make the last few look like a walk in the park. Hospitals and my dad do not make a good combo.
While I waited for them to come out, Tim continued his own personal ritual of the last two hours. He trekked back and forth between the emergency entrance where he could use his cell phone, the vending machines where he could buy me chocolate cupcakes and cookies and himself soda, and the bathroom where he could recycle the soda, using the chair next to me as a pit stop to get updated on the ankle.
It so happened that one of his brief visits coincided with Pat and my mother coming out with the news that the ankle was indeed broken, but that it was a clean break, easily set and easily mended. Learning that we would be spared endless haranguing by my father for taking him to the ER for nothing, we whopped and high-fived each other... much to the shock of the other people in the room. Apparently, it is not a normal reaction for people to be overjoyed when they learn a loved one has broken an appendage. Go figure.
Three hours after leaving, we pulled back into the driveway at the house with one broken ankle, one drained ipod battery, one drained cellphone battery and one newly-filled prescription for Vicodin which we were all eyeing with longing.
Upon arrival, we were told that there would be a two hour wait to see the doctor. Oh goody. Two hours in a waiting room filled with people who were hacking, sneezing, wheezing, whining, moaning and complaining. I wish we were that lucky.
Finding four seats together, we all sat down, and Tim, my mother and I all pulled out our ipods, intending to turn on, tune in and drop out. My father found a three day old newspaper and checked out the obits, looking to see how many of them had expired in the waiting room of the ER.
My sister, who was at a local fair, began texting me, so I turned over my ipod to my father, thinking a few games of Parking Lot would take his mind off his ankle, which he was still insisting was not broken. Being the anally logical person he is, I figured a game that consisted of moving cars around to free the one yellow car in the back would be right up his alley. Not even close.
"Why can't you move the cars sideways?" he grumbled, repeatedly trying to slide a limo across the screen.
Um, cause Henry Ford foolishly put wheels on cars that only had the ability to go forward and backward?
"This one is impossible," he growled, somewhere around move 287, still trying to push the offending cars sideways. Then, "I don't even know why we're here. It's only a sprain."
I knew we would never hear the end of it if it wasn't really broken.
On the other side of me was my mother, who was watching an old Judy Garland movie on her itouch, and periodically making comments like, "Boy, this place is crowded" and "Honestly, those people over there are soooo noisy", at the top of her lungs. I had to keep explaining that she was the one with the earbuds, and the rest of us could hear her just fine if she spoke in her normal "indoor voice". It really wasn't necessary to compete with the ambulance siren to see who could be louder.
Then there were the two girls across the room who had obviously mistaken this for the waiting room at the American Idol tryouts, and were serenading everyone with renditions of currents hits that made William Hueng sound like Placido Domingo. Even Paula would have been telling them to give it up.
Into this mix, about every fifteen minutes or so, a nurse would come into the waiting room with a clipboard and call out a name to which no one would respond. A beat. Call the name again. Another beat. Try once more. Finally, someone would say, "I think they already took that person back." A shrug. Last look around, as though the person they were paging might be playing hard to get and hiding under a sofa cushion, then they would amble off until it was time to come back in and call the next name to which nobody would respond. Way to stay on top of things, guys. Hey, if you can't find the elderly man with chest pain, you might want to check the maternity wing.
An hour or so into the fun and games, a nurse came in and gave my father a bright pink badge to wear, explaining that it was so that they could "track" his location. Yeah. Is that the same system you've been using to keep track of all the other patients? Because if it is, I gotta tell you it isn't working so well. Ever think of switching to Lojac?
Finally though, someone came out and called my father's name. Still grumbling and insisting that he didn't need to be at the hospital for a sprained ankle, he disappeared into the mysterious "back room".
Shortly thereafter, my sister arrived (she didn't want us to have all the fun) and managed to get into the back with my mom to see what was going on. At this point, we were all pretty much in agreement that if the ankle wasn't really broken, we would be subjected to such excruciatingly painful hours of , "I told you so", that it would make the last few look like a walk in the park. Hospitals and my dad do not make a good combo.
While I waited for them to come out, Tim continued his own personal ritual of the last two hours. He trekked back and forth between the emergency entrance where he could use his cell phone, the vending machines where he could buy me chocolate cupcakes and cookies and himself soda, and the bathroom where he could recycle the soda, using the chair next to me as a pit stop to get updated on the ankle.
It so happened that one of his brief visits coincided with Pat and my mother coming out with the news that the ankle was indeed broken, but that it was a clean break, easily set and easily mended. Learning that we would be spared endless haranguing by my father for taking him to the ER for nothing, we whopped and high-fived each other... much to the shock of the other people in the room. Apparently, it is not a normal reaction for people to be overjoyed when they learn a loved one has broken an appendage. Go figure.
Three hours after leaving, we pulled back into the driveway at the house with one broken ankle, one drained ipod battery, one drained cellphone battery and one newly-filled prescription for Vicodin which we were all eyeing with longing.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Ten Years of Ballet, Down the Drain
As a child, my mother would schlepp me back and forth once a week to ballet classes, which sadly turned out to be a complete waste of money. Graceful, I am not.
First of all, I run like I am doing an imitation of Jerry Lewis in the Nutty Professor , with arms and legs flailing. And that is how I broke my toe...twice. Not the big toe, not even the little end toe, but the little piggie that had none.
The first time is a dim childhood memory, involving cousins who were chasing me and a really, really well-made dining room chair (darn Amish). The second time was more recent and involved a door frame which jumped in front of me, I swear. One minute it was quietly sitting there doing its job, and the next it was trying to maim me as I ran for the phone (I don't actually remember who was on the other end, but I'm pretty sure they learned some new and creative uses for several four-letter words--I'm hoping it was a solicitor).
Then there was the time I cut off the tip of my finger while trying to slice potatoes with a mandolin. Aggravated with the way the potato kept slipping out from under the finger guard (duh--guard), I decided to do without it. Not a good decision, which I realized the minute I saw a pinkish piece of potato on the cutting board surrounded by a mysterious red liquid. Ewww, oh and ouch too! (Now I know why manufacturers feel it necessary to put seemingly obvious directions on things like the "Do Not Boil" on my plastic butter dish).
And most recently, I gave myself several lovely contusions on my leg by walking into an open drawer. In my defense, this one was not my fault. Tim had pulled out the drawer a few minutes before and failed to push it back in and, honestly, after twenty-eight years, does he not know that I can't be trusted not to kill myself on inanimate objects with protruding parts (or inanimate objects without protruding parts)? I am, after all, my mother's daughter, and this was the woman who daily stubbed her toes and banged up her shins by walking into a dishwasher that had not changed location in fifteen years. Hellooooooo.
While I normally am only a danger to myself, this week I decided to branch out and try to injure an innocent bystander.
It all started out innocuously enough in yoga class where we were doing twists. The teacher was not happy enough that we were contorting ourselves into something resembling a cross between a pretzel and a corkscrew, she actually wanted us to roll over onto the floor and then back up like huge Weeble dolls while keeping the twist!
"Let gravity just pull you down," she encouraged.
Okay. And what is going to pull me back up? A crane, perhaps?
"Just let your arms and legs flow naturally where they want to go," she offered, when it became clear that this was not going to work out quite as she had planned. (I believe her first clue was when most of us lay gasping on the floor like beached whales, but I could be wrong.)
And so I let my legs flow. Unfortunately, they happened to flow right into the head of the woman next to me.
Luckily for her, she bobbed just at the moment I weaved and we averted a trip to the emergency room (who knew Yoga was a contact sport?). Although she forgave me, I noticed she did place her mat at the opposite end of the room the next time we had class. Probably for the best.
When I told Tim this story, he was not really surprised, just grateful that it wasn't him.
Maybe one more year of ballet would have made a difference. Or not.
First of all, I run like I am doing an imitation of Jerry Lewis in the Nutty Professor , with arms and legs flailing. And that is how I broke my toe...twice. Not the big toe, not even the little end toe, but the little piggie that had none.
The first time is a dim childhood memory, involving cousins who were chasing me and a really, really well-made dining room chair (darn Amish). The second time was more recent and involved a door frame which jumped in front of me, I swear. One minute it was quietly sitting there doing its job, and the next it was trying to maim me as I ran for the phone (I don't actually remember who was on the other end, but I'm pretty sure they learned some new and creative uses for several four-letter words--I'm hoping it was a solicitor).
Then there was the time I cut off the tip of my finger while trying to slice potatoes with a mandolin. Aggravated with the way the potato kept slipping out from under the finger guard (duh--guard), I decided to do without it. Not a good decision, which I realized the minute I saw a pinkish piece of potato on the cutting board surrounded by a mysterious red liquid. Ewww, oh and ouch too! (Now I know why manufacturers feel it necessary to put seemingly obvious directions on things like the "Do Not Boil" on my plastic butter dish).
And most recently, I gave myself several lovely contusions on my leg by walking into an open drawer. In my defense, this one was not my fault. Tim had pulled out the drawer a few minutes before and failed to push it back in and, honestly, after twenty-eight years, does he not know that I can't be trusted not to kill myself on inanimate objects with protruding parts (or inanimate objects without protruding parts)? I am, after all, my mother's daughter, and this was the woman who daily stubbed her toes and banged up her shins by walking into a dishwasher that had not changed location in fifteen years. Hellooooooo.
While I normally am only a danger to myself, this week I decided to branch out and try to injure an innocent bystander.
It all started out innocuously enough in yoga class where we were doing twists. The teacher was not happy enough that we were contorting ourselves into something resembling a cross between a pretzel and a corkscrew, she actually wanted us to roll over onto the floor and then back up like huge Weeble dolls while keeping the twist!
"Let gravity just pull you down," she encouraged.
Okay. And what is going to pull me back up? A crane, perhaps?
"Just let your arms and legs flow naturally where they want to go," she offered, when it became clear that this was not going to work out quite as she had planned. (I believe her first clue was when most of us lay gasping on the floor like beached whales, but I could be wrong.)
And so I let my legs flow. Unfortunately, they happened to flow right into the head of the woman next to me.
Luckily for her, she bobbed just at the moment I weaved and we averted a trip to the emergency room (who knew Yoga was a contact sport?). Although she forgave me, I noticed she did place her mat at the opposite end of the room the next time we had class. Probably for the best.
When I told Tim this story, he was not really surprised, just grateful that it wasn't him.
Maybe one more year of ballet would have made a difference. Or not.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
An Unfortunate Break
I have an unfortunate tendency (inherited from my mother) to walk into things like walls, doors and other moving objects. I always have at least two or three bruises on my legs, and I have broken various toes several times over the years. Despite ten years of ballet...graceful, I am not!
On our last vacation alone, I managed to misjudge a set of steps and sprain a couple of toes, cutting and bruising my foot in the process (so much for romantic moonlight walks--somehow, gushing blood, hopping around like a demented rabbit and swearing like a sailor isn't a turn-on. Go figure)
I also smashed my knee on the steps in the kiddie pool, again cutting and bruising it (no hopping this time, just sinking like a stone). Oddly enough, I did not expect steps six feet down in the "kiddie pool" since the adults only pool was just four feet deep. Nor could I figure out why the swim-up bar was there. How exactly does that logic go...get the kids liquored up, then make them swim through six foot deep water to safety? Why not put a few great whites into the pool too? Just to make it more interesting.
Anyway, Tim is convinced that he will be arrested one day for spousal abuse. Although there is the time that he broke my arm...(sweetie, you had to know this story would eventually make the blog!)
Our house has hardwood floors throughout. Days after we moved in, we had friends coming over, and Tim volunteered (was drafted) to clean the floors. The last words out of my mouth as he headed out to the store were, "Don't get Endust. It makes the floors too slippery."
Of course, he heard, "Get Endust," and the rest, as they say, is history.
Hours later, as I headed downstairs to get a refill for my glass of water and tell Tim that I was going to bed, disaster (and Endust) struck. Holding onto the railing (safety first), I took the first step with my foot and the next thirteen with my backside and left elbow. Strangely, some instinct made me protect the expensive crystal glass from K-Mart, but not my own elbow!
Of course, Tim wanted me to go to the ER (on a Friday night? There's eight hours sucked out of your life), but I refused.
The next morning, after half a bottle of Tylenol and almost no sleep, he tried again. And again, I refused. We had an appointment at the furniture store and it was the last day of a storewide clearance! Was he insane? What was a sore arm compared with fifty percent off!!!
As we pondered tables, chairs and couches, I began to suspect I had made the wrong decision. I lost interest in colors and styles, fabrics and wood grains. After receiving a less than enthusiastic response to a couch he had chosen, Tim lost his patience. He turned to me and said (here it was---the mother of all mistakes) "Suck it up and walk it off!"
Now some people are surprised that I didn't kill him instantly, but where would the fun be in that? Instead, I have meted out his punishment slowly over the last ten years. Whenever he thinks he is right about a particular issue we are debating, I will grab ahold of my poor, sore arm, and quote, "Suck it up and walk it off". There is no defense.
Ultimately, we did go to the ER (after lunch. Please. Saturday in the ER? We could be there until lunchtime on Sunday, the way they move and you have to have your priorities in life!)
where I was diagnosed with a green twig fracture.
The worst part of the whole ordeal though, came during the next few weeks when Tim had to wash and dry my (then waist long) hair every day. At least on this vacation, I only chipped my (toe)nail polish!
On our last vacation alone, I managed to misjudge a set of steps and sprain a couple of toes, cutting and bruising my foot in the process (so much for romantic moonlight walks--somehow, gushing blood, hopping around like a demented rabbit and swearing like a sailor isn't a turn-on. Go figure)
I also smashed my knee on the steps in the kiddie pool, again cutting and bruising it (no hopping this time, just sinking like a stone). Oddly enough, I did not expect steps six feet down in the "kiddie pool" since the adults only pool was just four feet deep. Nor could I figure out why the swim-up bar was there. How exactly does that logic go...get the kids liquored up, then make them swim through six foot deep water to safety? Why not put a few great whites into the pool too? Just to make it more interesting.
Anyway, Tim is convinced that he will be arrested one day for spousal abuse. Although there is the time that he broke my arm...(sweetie, you had to know this story would eventually make the blog!)
Our house has hardwood floors throughout. Days after we moved in, we had friends coming over, and Tim volunteered (was drafted) to clean the floors. The last words out of my mouth as he headed out to the store were, "Don't get Endust. It makes the floors too slippery."
Of course, he heard, "Get Endust," and the rest, as they say, is history.
Hours later, as I headed downstairs to get a refill for my glass of water and tell Tim that I was going to bed, disaster (and Endust) struck. Holding onto the railing (safety first), I took the first step with my foot and the next thirteen with my backside and left elbow. Strangely, some instinct made me protect the expensive crystal glass from K-Mart, but not my own elbow!
Of course, Tim wanted me to go to the ER (on a Friday night? There's eight hours sucked out of your life), but I refused.
The next morning, after half a bottle of Tylenol and almost no sleep, he tried again. And again, I refused. We had an appointment at the furniture store and it was the last day of a storewide clearance! Was he insane? What was a sore arm compared with fifty percent off!!!
As we pondered tables, chairs and couches, I began to suspect I had made the wrong decision. I lost interest in colors and styles, fabrics and wood grains. After receiving a less than enthusiastic response to a couch he had chosen, Tim lost his patience. He turned to me and said (here it was---the mother of all mistakes) "Suck it up and walk it off!"
Now some people are surprised that I didn't kill him instantly, but where would the fun be in that? Instead, I have meted out his punishment slowly over the last ten years. Whenever he thinks he is right about a particular issue we are debating, I will grab ahold of my poor, sore arm, and quote, "Suck it up and walk it off". There is no defense.
Ultimately, we did go to the ER (after lunch. Please. Saturday in the ER? We could be there until lunchtime on Sunday, the way they move and you have to have your priorities in life!)
where I was diagnosed with a green twig fracture.
The worst part of the whole ordeal though, came during the next few weeks when Tim had to wash and dry my (then waist long) hair every day. At least on this vacation, I only chipped my (toe)nail polish!
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Sympathy
I knew it was coming. Sore throat, body aches, slight fever, coughing fit at three A.M. Yep. I officially have the flu.
Tim, of course is very sympathetic. He rolled over and told me not to worry about waking him in the middle of the night as I held the pillow over my face and coughed up a lung. He only opened the shades three times this morning, put on the TV and switched on the light while I languished in my sickbed. He even called a few minutes ago to see how I was doing... and told me I needed to be over it by tomorrow because we have an invitation to spend the night at someone's house tomorrow night and then go out with them on their boat on Saturday. Yep, he's just brimming over with concern.
Don't get me wrong. The last time I had the stomach flu, he went to the store at six in the morning to get me pretzels, Gatorade and chicken soup. He offered to take me to the hospital/ doctor. He called eighty-two thousand times to check up on me. The regular old flu just doesn't make the cut for getting sympathy. To Tim, it is in the "suck it up and walk it off" category of illnesses. Like breaking your elbow.
Nine years ago (it's true, women forget nothing and can bring anything up at anytime for any reason--deal with it guys), we had just moved into our house and had our first visitors. Of course, the hardwood floors had taken a beating from all the people, boxes, etc., so they needed to be spruced up a bit before company came. Tim offered to go to the store and get something to clean them with. I believe my last words were, "Do not get Endust. It makes the floor slippery." Naurally, he came back with Endust. (I swear he only hears about every fourth word I say on a good day!)
Fortunately, our luck held and our elderly guest who had just had knee surgery did not slip and fall. I, however, was not so lucky.
At around midnight, I went upstairs to get ready for bed and decided not to come back down to watch TV. Instead of yelling down, I thought I would walk down, tell Tim and get another glass of water. Unfortunately, I had made the fateful decision to leave on my socks while I did this (it was winter and I didn't want cold feet, so I opted for the broken elbow instead--a good choice, don't you think?)
Let's just say that Endust, socks and stairs do not mix, but the cheap glass from Target came out without a nick or scratch. Oh, and we have thirteen steps leading to the second floor. I counted each one as my elbow hit it on the way down. (I now drink my water straight from the plastic bottle and have cold feet all winter...and they say you can't teach an old dog new tricks).
Tim, who thought a box had fallen (how come in all the romance novels and chick flicks, the girls are always getting compared to a greek goddess or a delicate flower, and I get compared to a large. square, cardboard object?) came around the corner to find me sitting on the bottom step laughing hysterically and offered to take me to the hospital (or psych ward). I assured him that I was fine (physically, at least) and just needed a good night's sleep. (I was not going to the hospital in my PJ's)
Turns out I was not so fine and I definitely did not get a good night's sleep. My arm throbbed all night long and no amount of Tylenol helped.
First thing in the morning, Tim offered again to take me to the hospital. but we had made an appointment at a furniture store and it was the last day of the big sale (hey, you have to have priorities in life, and you can sit in emergency rooms for hours before they will even have you fill out a form).
Off to the store we went. Two hours later, I was holding my arm, gobbling Tylenol like candy corns at Halloween and rethinking my priorities when he asked me how I liked a particular couch. "Fine." I answered, "Let's get it," not realizing that this was the wrong thing to say to a guy who has been dragged to the furniture store on a Saturday morning.
"Fine! Fine!" he snapped. "I don't want to settle for fine. If you don't like it, let's keep looking."
I am not Irish for nothing. I believe my answer went something like, "Okay, not fine. It is the most beautiful, stupendous couch I have ever seen. I must have it, or I will fling myself from the top of a mountain into the icy, raging waters of a rushing river." And then I burst into tears and gabbed my arm.
Now this is where the sympathy came pouring out of him. He turned to me and, without missing a beat, said, "I offered to take you to the hospital, but you wanted to come furtiture shopping, so suck it up and walk it off ! "
You know how in the movies, someone says something so outrageous that all converstation, movement and even the backgrounnd music stops? Well, it was kind of like that. The saleswoman backed out of there at Mach ten as , slowly, I turned. Step by step, inch by inch I approached Tim, opened my mouth and...nothing.
I can't remember what happend next because I think I had a stroke. When I came to, we were in the car on the way to the ER. But first, we stopped to pick up burgers. I said I was reevaluating my priorities, I never said I put my elbow at the top of the list!
To make a long story short, (too late), we got the couch, I got a cast and Tim had to wash and dry my waist length hair for the next couple weeks. I'm still thinking of a suitable punishment for him for this weekend.
Tim, of course is very sympathetic. He rolled over and told me not to worry about waking him in the middle of the night as I held the pillow over my face and coughed up a lung. He only opened the shades three times this morning, put on the TV and switched on the light while I languished in my sickbed. He even called a few minutes ago to see how I was doing... and told me I needed to be over it by tomorrow because we have an invitation to spend the night at someone's house tomorrow night and then go out with them on their boat on Saturday. Yep, he's just brimming over with concern.
Don't get me wrong. The last time I had the stomach flu, he went to the store at six in the morning to get me pretzels, Gatorade and chicken soup. He offered to take me to the hospital/ doctor. He called eighty-two thousand times to check up on me. The regular old flu just doesn't make the cut for getting sympathy. To Tim, it is in the "suck it up and walk it off" category of illnesses. Like breaking your elbow.
Nine years ago (it's true, women forget nothing and can bring anything up at anytime for any reason--deal with it guys), we had just moved into our house and had our first visitors. Of course, the hardwood floors had taken a beating from all the people, boxes, etc., so they needed to be spruced up a bit before company came. Tim offered to go to the store and get something to clean them with. I believe my last words were, "Do not get Endust. It makes the floor slippery." Naurally, he came back with Endust. (I swear he only hears about every fourth word I say on a good day!)
Fortunately, our luck held and our elderly guest who had just had knee surgery did not slip and fall. I, however, was not so lucky.
At around midnight, I went upstairs to get ready for bed and decided not to come back down to watch TV. Instead of yelling down, I thought I would walk down, tell Tim and get another glass of water. Unfortunately, I had made the fateful decision to leave on my socks while I did this (it was winter and I didn't want cold feet, so I opted for the broken elbow instead--a good choice, don't you think?)
Let's just say that Endust, socks and stairs do not mix, but the cheap glass from Target came out without a nick or scratch. Oh, and we have thirteen steps leading to the second floor. I counted each one as my elbow hit it on the way down. (I now drink my water straight from the plastic bottle and have cold feet all winter...and they say you can't teach an old dog new tricks).
Tim, who thought a box had fallen (how come in all the romance novels and chick flicks, the girls are always getting compared to a greek goddess or a delicate flower, and I get compared to a large. square, cardboard object?) came around the corner to find me sitting on the bottom step laughing hysterically and offered to take me to the hospital (or psych ward). I assured him that I was fine (physically, at least) and just needed a good night's sleep. (I was not going to the hospital in my PJ's)
Turns out I was not so fine and I definitely did not get a good night's sleep. My arm throbbed all night long and no amount of Tylenol helped.
First thing in the morning, Tim offered again to take me to the hospital. but we had made an appointment at a furniture store and it was the last day of the big sale (hey, you have to have priorities in life, and you can sit in emergency rooms for hours before they will even have you fill out a form).
Off to the store we went. Two hours later, I was holding my arm, gobbling Tylenol like candy corns at Halloween and rethinking my priorities when he asked me how I liked a particular couch. "Fine." I answered, "Let's get it," not realizing that this was the wrong thing to say to a guy who has been dragged to the furniture store on a Saturday morning.
"Fine! Fine!" he snapped. "I don't want to settle for fine. If you don't like it, let's keep looking."
I am not Irish for nothing. I believe my answer went something like, "Okay, not fine. It is the most beautiful, stupendous couch I have ever seen. I must have it, or I will fling myself from the top of a mountain into the icy, raging waters of a rushing river." And then I burst into tears and gabbed my arm.
Now this is where the sympathy came pouring out of him. He turned to me and, without missing a beat, said, "I offered to take you to the hospital, but you wanted to come furtiture shopping, so suck it up and walk it off ! "
You know how in the movies, someone says something so outrageous that all converstation, movement and even the backgrounnd music stops? Well, it was kind of like that. The saleswoman backed out of there at Mach ten as , slowly, I turned. Step by step, inch by inch I approached Tim, opened my mouth and...nothing.
I can't remember what happend next because I think I had a stroke. When I came to, we were in the car on the way to the ER. But first, we stopped to pick up burgers. I said I was reevaluating my priorities, I never said I put my elbow at the top of the list!
To make a long story short, (too late), we got the couch, I got a cast and Tim had to wash and dry my waist length hair for the next couple weeks. I'm still thinking of a suitable punishment for him for this weekend.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)