Andare, Partire, Tornare ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Somebody get me a hotline to heaven so I can find out what the hell is going on Ye gods and little fishes. I'm not sure what deity I've managed to piss off, but my karma has taken a turn into the nearest lightpole and flamed out in a spectacular one-man wreck. I was grouchy all day Monday due to a lack of sleep, and Bemo and I sniped at each other a couple of times over stupid crap. After I got home, we were mostly getting along, and ended up going out to run a few errands that ended with a trip to mom's house to swim and to help her move a headboard. She bought us dinner, it was all still going well, and then she did this ridiculous thing that she loves - feeding the dogs the bones from her pork chops. I've told her repeatedly that it's a bad idea because they could choke, but telling her things are one way when she believes them to be another is about as productive as spitting into the wind. So I'm holding a bone for Mozart, trying not to let him wolf it down and get it lodged in his windpipe, when *crunch* he bears down on my right index finger. I bleed. I freak out a little bit. I decide to go to the ER because I think I might need stitches. Bemo is agitated. Mom thinks we are being silly about the stitches, and is getting angry because I had the unmitigated gall to get myself injured doing something she felt was harmless. Exunt Bemo and Genibee to the ER, where after a few hours, Genibee's finger is scrubbed, bandaged, and covered in a stylish white gauze sock, and Genibee gets a tetnus shot. (no stitches for a dogbite, apparently it traps infection). I return to mom's house to tell her I'm ok, and startle her into a crying fit because she didn't hear me the three times I called out coming up the stairs. She tells me that she *knew* I wouldn't need stitches but didn't want to say anything because *helpless hand gesture* "your husband was getting loud." She blames me for "sticking your finger in the dog's mouth," and wails, "Why did you do that? I didn't know you were going to do that!" She also refuses to believe that my hand was still bleeding when I got to the ER, because it had temporarily stopped when she looked at it in the house. We part on bad terms, and now I can expect a few hysterical phone calls in my near future about getting rid of the dogs, how inconsiderate my husband and I are, and most of all, how she's alooooone and helpless and she might as well sell the house and go back to Manila where she can have a maid and have somebody to take care of her. Hopefully my sister's return home over Labor Day weekend will pop her out of the pity party track, but I have my doubts. To put the shit frosting on the big disaster cake, I woke up this morning to find that in last night's hamfisted fumbling, I dropped my left contact lens onto the counter, and not into its container. It's shriveled and dead. I swear, because they're fairly new lenses, and get a new pair. I put the new right one in, no problem. I put the left one in, and it hurts like a bitch, I take it out and rinse it. See that it looks funny. Rub it. IT FALLS APART IN MY HAND. I swear, again. Off to get another contact from my now rapidly dwindling supply. The box has fallen to the floor and is now empty of contact lenses and I can't see to find them because I only have one lens in and I'm staggering like Otis the town drunk because I can't see properly. I roust the Bemo, he finds them, and I make my sorry way into work, wailing "You've got to be fucking KIDDING me with this shit" about every other minute. I need to start keeping vodka in my desk at work. Or maybe I could break into the valium set aside for my wisdom tooth extraction in September. 8:36 a.m. - 2003-08-26 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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