Strange times have (once again) invaded the loony bin that is my house.
They (whoever they are) keep telling me that I need to emphasize the positive, so I can verify that we have not been set upon by the IRS because of our libertarian, small-government beliefs.
Our names haven't surfaced in relation to Benghazi, nor have we ever heard from Hillary Clinton.
We have not heard anybody ordering coffee in the background while we're on the phone, so there's that.
We have no data
in the cloud, so we're safe that way.
Now that I'm done emphasizing the positive, I can get back to my narrative.
Saturday morning Mrs. leftystrat hurt something in the shower. She limped to the couch and sat down. And when I say sat down, I mean she oriented herself south and threw her body at the couch, in a process we refer to as Elephants with Tutus. Or, as a friend says, Princess Grace.
The scream that ensued was not of this earth.
It sounded like she ripped something.
"It feels like I ripped something," she told me.
Five minutes later, when the screaming stopped, she discovered it was incredibly difficult to get around. Her normal clodding about became more of a stuttering clod, followed by something that sounded like "mrmmmph... OH."
I shrunk into my chair in horror.
Things were so bad that I had to drive her to her scheduled appointment. This is
bad. I asked if it was Hospital Time yet and was told no in no uncertain terms.
Sunday morning, in the middle of a rather interesting dream involving a different Karen, a model and a lesbian from work, I was awakened.
Why, you ask?
Because it was Hospital Time<tm>.
Once or twice a year I drop my constant use of sarcastic replies and this was it. It took
Yes Dear to a whole new level.
Emergency examinations are an exam apart from Regular examinations. Some distant relative of Hitler grabbed my wife's leg and asked her if it hurt.
No.
How about here?
No.
How about here?
AAAAAAAAH.
Good. How about here?
No.
It's not like the doc was looking for range of motion.... it's more like she was looking for all sorts of new ways to cause pain (for reasons only she and psychiatrists understand).
Finally one of the more alert doctors noticed what could only be called a
divot on her leg. The diagnosis was torn something or other that sounded like Velociraptor. And the only relief would be motrin and staying off it. She left with a soft splint-thingie, which kept slipping down her leg.
Let me say another nice thing (who am I and what have I done with leftystrat?): the hospital was terribly efficient and we were out within ninety minutes.
NOW WHAT?
I can deal with all sorts of situations. I am a decent guy to have near you in an emergency: I only panic over stupid little shit, not the Big Stuff<tm>. I waited on my wife like professional staff. Since the docs mandated rest and relaxation, she was up the steps, down the steps and on the front steps to smoke. The real question the doctors needed to ask was if the injury was so serious it interrupted smoking. Because there's virtually
nothing that can interrupt smoking (with the possible exception of death, but that's just a theory of mine).
The children were being more uncooperative than normal and a bit differently than normal. Usually Ren, the cat, is the difficult one. Lately they have switched places and Marshall, the dog, has become Hell on Legs.
I have described Cat Food Ballet before. This is the process by which the little monsters are fed in the morning. Unfortunately for me, things have gotten further out of control.
I go in the kitchen to feed Ren and close the door. I feed Marshall on the other side. In the midst of that, Ren opens the kitchen door and Marshall runs in, horfing up every last crumb of cat food. When he's done with the cat food, he stands up and raids the trash can. He's never done with the trash can. We recently discovered that both of them can flip the trash can over too.
While Marshall is in the midst of Trash Feast 2013, Ren has taken off to the dog food, which he is hungrily crunching up. When I scream "GET OUT OF THE DOG FOOD, REN," he reluctantly moves away; one of the few times he bothers to listen. Of course at this point, he moves away until he thinks I am done watching.
Most times after I yell at Ren, Marshall comes running, whining at Ren, and gets back into his own food.
I got so tired of watching these two lunatics running in and out of the kitchen that I finally put a ladder up against the kitchen door so neither of them could get it. This was followed by minutes of blessed silence, until such time I had to feed the cat again.
Ren stayed in the kitchen and I put the ladder back up. Unfortunately this didn't hold as well as last time and he kept ramming his nineteen pound bulk against the door, finally sending the leaning ladder over backwards. Right onto a picture, smashing the glass.
I'm quite surprised that the neighbors haven't called the authorities, what with all the strained-voice yelling "I'M GOING TO KILL YOU. AND YOUR LITTLE DOG TOO!" If my wife didn't smoke on the front step, they would be concerned that I killed the lot of them. Except for the crazy lady next door... she's mostly deaf. And very dumb.
When everything settles for more than a few seconds, Marshall starts whining that he has to go outside. Oddly enough,
outside can mean anything from outside to "I want to get into the trash and check the cat food situation, Dad."
Recently we discovered that someone was eating at
Cat Box Cafe. Guess who?
Marshall just got his summer haircut. Nobody knows why but after he returns, he spends every second physically in contact with me or my wife. He sleeps anchored to me, frequently on my pillow (in spite of my sending him back down to the other end - he just creeps back up seconds later). He's currently attached to my wife on the couch. He's like a large, squirmy back pillow (that farts).
This velociraptor tearing thing has to end. I simply don't have the patience to take care of Beelzebub's Bunch and my wife at the same time.
