“I could really go for some salty nuts right now,” my wife blurted as we sat on the couch watching football this afternoon. That’s typical of the kind of crap she spews with a straight face.
“I can probably help you with that,” I responded, to which she smiled and handed me a scrap of paper with a list of groceries.
“Cool. Can you get this other stuff, too? I don’t have my hair brushed and I don’t feel like spending 30 minutes getting ready, just for the neighborhood geezers.” I grabbed my shoes and started for the door. “Oh,” she added, “get me a box of tampons, too. My period started today.”
Amazing. In four sentences, my weekend afternoon went from okay to promising, back to okay, and then plummeted to discouraging. On the positive side, there’s no real reason to expend the effort impressing her with a bunch of housework if we’re just going straight to sleep tonight.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
My Wife Krazy-Glue's her Hand
My wife is amazing. She is a wonderful, patient mother, a caring wife, an involved volunteer at for the kids’ schools; and, most importantly, she looks awesome in her tight, low-cut jeans. Graceful she is not. Twice in the last month she has poked me in the eye while sleeping. Or; at least she claims she was sleeping.
There are advantages to this lack of grace. For example, I always know her whereabouts in the house. The rattles and clangs produced by her normal routine serve as a kind of constant foghorn, alerting me to watch for a swinging laundry door or avoid the kitchen area. And I never, ever, venture into the garden when she’s slinging the hoe or rake around.
The latest adventurous mishap started yesterday afternoon. I was sitting in my office with a couple of coworkers, struggling with a problem of logic and importance, when Bel Biv Devoe’s “Poison” blared from my IPhone, announcing a call from my wife. “Yes, babe,” I answered.
“What’s your timeline for coming home?” Ugh. That is never, ever a good question to hear.
“That depends upon what you need, babe.” Translation: Tell me what you’ve done and I’ll decide whether I have to come fix it now or if it will wait until after work.
“I cut my hand... a little.”
“How ’little’?”
“Well, it’s been bleeding a while.”
“How long is ‘a while’?” This is a normal game, whereby my betrothed offers snippets of info and I guess what she’s talking about until either the truth is revealed or she decides that I’m not a good listener. It’s a blast.
“Maybe an hour…maybe a little longer.”
“How much longer,” I ask, masking my growing frustration.
“I don’t know…90 minutes or so.”
Huh? “You’ve been bleeding for a f**** hour and a half and haven’t done anything about it?”
“I’m calling you now.” I didn’t hear “dumbass” on the end of her sentence, but she left no doubt as to her meaning.
I finally surrendered, realizing that this call wasn’t going to result in progress. “I’m on my way.”
I home and ran in the door to find my wife walking around the house with toilet paper wrapped around her hand and the phone in her ear. Assuming she was talking to a doctor, I tried to get close enough to hear both sides of the conversation. My wife shook her head at me and walked a few steps away. “Well, yes,” she said into the phone, “when we re-did the kitchen, we had the tile floor done first so the cabinets could be put in on a new floor.” I waved my arms to get her attention, but she just shrugged me off. For ten minutes, I sat impotently on a stool, watching my wife walk around the house with the phone squeezed into the crook of her neck, debating the virtues of granite versus marble as a kitchen counter top, while wrestling with her blood-sodden hand wrap. She went through two bandages before hanging up and turning to me with a shrug.
“That was Jenny in Tennessee,” my wife said. Seeing the look on my face, she added, “She had questions about kitchen remodeling.” I continued to stare at her. “Well, she called me. I couldn’t just hang up.”
“How’s your hand?” I asked.
“Oh, that.” I’ve got an idea. I think I can superglue it.
“What the hell?” I thought as she dragged me to the kitchen sink. She stuck her hand under the cold water and I got my first glimpse of the crevasse she had sliced through her palm. “How did you do that?” I asked as she rinse away at the blood oozing from the gash.
“Can of peas,” she responded, pinching the gap together and handing me the tube of glue. “Now, put a thick bead of glue on it.”
“The glue will seal it. Now, quit yapping and glue my hand.” I was tempted to glue her palm to her mouth.
She was still bleeding enough that she had to hold a towel while I pinch the skin together and glued the seam. Naturally, I glued our hands together, which resulting in re-opening her wound as I pulled our appendages apart to her running commentary on my lack of home-surgery competence. The second attempt seemed to work, leaving her with a gummy, reddish streak across her hand. “You think I can run tonight,” she asked with a straight face. I walked to the bedroom to change.
I later learned that this medical technique had been emparted to my dearest by a doctor friend. Since he doesn’t like to read, I’m not sure how much faith to put into his advice. You would think that the medical annals would have something to say about advising a patient to avoid the emergency room by use of Krazy Glue. However, if a doctor doesn’t read, as this one states, then I suppose the threat of learning is considerably diminished.
The hand seems to be healing, with no sign of infection. Apparently, Krazy Glue is the money-saving miracle cure parents needs around the house. Julie can’t wait until our next mishap to test her skills. As long as the accident isn’t in the region of my crotch, I’ll let her give it a shot.
There are advantages to this lack of grace. For example, I always know her whereabouts in the house. The rattles and clangs produced by her normal routine serve as a kind of constant foghorn, alerting me to watch for a swinging laundry door or avoid the kitchen area. And I never, ever, venture into the garden when she’s slinging the hoe or rake around.
The latest adventurous mishap started yesterday afternoon. I was sitting in my office with a couple of coworkers, struggling with a problem of logic and importance, when Bel Biv Devoe’s “Poison” blared from my IPhone, announcing a call from my wife. “Yes, babe,” I answered.
“What’s your timeline for coming home?” Ugh. That is never, ever a good question to hear.
“That depends upon what you need, babe.” Translation: Tell me what you’ve done and I’ll decide whether I have to come fix it now or if it will wait until after work.
“I cut my hand... a little.”
“How ’little’?”
“Well, it’s been bleeding a while.”
“How long is ‘a while’?” This is a normal game, whereby my betrothed offers snippets of info and I guess what she’s talking about until either the truth is revealed or she decides that I’m not a good listener. It’s a blast.
“Maybe an hour…maybe a little longer.”
“How much longer,” I ask, masking my growing frustration.
“I don’t know…90 minutes or so.”
Huh? “You’ve been bleeding for a f**** hour and a half and haven’t done anything about it?”
“I’m calling you now.” I didn’t hear “dumbass” on the end of her sentence, but she left no doubt as to her meaning.
I finally surrendered, realizing that this call wasn’t going to result in progress. “I’m on my way.”
I home and ran in the door to find my wife walking around the house with toilet paper wrapped around her hand and the phone in her ear. Assuming she was talking to a doctor, I tried to get close enough to hear both sides of the conversation. My wife shook her head at me and walked a few steps away. “Well, yes,” she said into the phone, “when we re-did the kitchen, we had the tile floor done first so the cabinets could be put in on a new floor.” I waved my arms to get her attention, but she just shrugged me off. For ten minutes, I sat impotently on a stool, watching my wife walk around the house with the phone squeezed into the crook of her neck, debating the virtues of granite versus marble as a kitchen counter top, while wrestling with her blood-sodden hand wrap. She went through two bandages before hanging up and turning to me with a shrug.
“That was Jenny in Tennessee,” my wife said. Seeing the look on my face, she added, “She had questions about kitchen remodeling.” I continued to stare at her. “Well, she called me. I couldn’t just hang up.”
“How’s your hand?” I asked.
“Oh, that.” I’ve got an idea. I think I can superglue it.
“What the hell?” I thought as she dragged me to the kitchen sink. She stuck her hand under the cold water and I got my first glimpse of the crevasse she had sliced through her palm. “How did you do that?” I asked as she rinse away at the blood oozing from the gash.
“Can of peas,” she responded, pinching the gap together and handing me the tube of glue. “Now, put a thick bead of glue on it.”
“The glue will seal it. Now, quit yapping and glue my hand.” I was tempted to glue her palm to her mouth.
She was still bleeding enough that she had to hold a towel while I pinch the skin together and glued the seam. Naturally, I glued our hands together, which resulting in re-opening her wound as I pulled our appendages apart to her running commentary on my lack of home-surgery competence. The second attempt seemed to work, leaving her with a gummy, reddish streak across her hand. “You think I can run tonight,” she asked with a straight face. I walked to the bedroom to change.
I later learned that this medical technique had been emparted to my dearest by a doctor friend. Since he doesn’t like to read, I’m not sure how much faith to put into his advice. You would think that the medical annals would have something to say about advising a patient to avoid the emergency room by use of Krazy Glue. However, if a doctor doesn’t read, as this one states, then I suppose the threat of learning is considerably diminished.
The hand seems to be healing, with no sign of infection. Apparently, Krazy Glue is the money-saving miracle cure parents needs around the house. Julie can’t wait until our next mishap to test her skills. As long as the accident isn’t in the region of my crotch, I’ll let her give it a shot.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Brutal Triathlon in Clermont
The Florida Challenge Triathlon was far tougher than I expected. I was better prepared for this race than any event in my life, but the hills and heat tore the heart out of my performance. By the time I reached T2, I was badly dehydrated and in semi-shock from an encounter with a small alligator.
The swim was in the 88-degree, tea-colored water of Lake Minneola. No wind, no waves, complete boredom. The nightmare started exited T1, when I had to mount my bike and climb an immediate slope up to right turn to exit Clermont.
Within 10 miles, I was surfing up and down hills for which I don’t even own gears. I also have little experience shifting my front derailleur, leading to an unfortunate incident whereby I over-shifted, dropped the chain off the big ring, rolled onto the soft shoulder, and flipped over the aerobars and into the ditch. I found myself under a tree, so I relaxed for a few moments, enjoying the only shade I would experience all day.
Two hours later, I was finally nearing the end of the bike leg. I was celebrating a rare piece of level asphalt by stretching across my aerobars. I swerved to barely miss a piece of tire rubber and almost crapped myself when the “tire rubber” whirled around and hissed at me. I was 50 feet past the animal before I realized that I almost clipped a gator. A dull shriek cut the air as I crested the next hill. Hopefully, the rider behind me didn’t actually hit the little critter.
The Florida Challenge bike course is not for time trial bikes. Unique among Sunshine State triathlons, this course is nearly vertical. My Garmin GPS later told me that I rode over 5000 feet of elevation, and I felt every inch.
The heat was taking a toll by mile 50. I was able to fill my aerobottle four times, thanks to the great volunteers manning the aid stations. One result of the heat was swollen feet. The sharp pain finally overwhelmed me and I stopped and peeled off my socks in a driveway, laying them across a mailbox while I got readjusted on my bike. Just as I was ready to roll, I dropped my bike bottle, and had to start all over. I was a mile down the road, entering Clermont, when I realized that my nasty socks were still drying on the mailbox.
Things seemed to be going reasonably well as I entered T2, except when I racked my bike the rear wheel slipped off and clattered to the ground. I suppose the good news is that it didn’t slip off when I was careening down a hill at 50+ mph.
The heat struck as I launched into the half marathon. The course is a 6-mile, 2-loop jaunt with no shade. I felt fine for the first two miles, right up to the point, 30 feet shy of the Clermont cheerleaders aid station, when all the fluid in my stomach decided to revisit the outside world. “Ewwwww!” sang out a chorus of young voices. Staring down, I learned that Orange and Lime Gatorade mix to create a brown swirl. This epiphany motivated my stomach to hurl the rest of it’s contents onto the ground, to another chorus of young, feminine squeals.
The next ten miles passed in a haze of heat and misery, but I was able to cross the finish line and muster enough energy to pack my gear and point my truck back towards distant Tampa. My only real complaint was that after all the miles of discomfort, the race organizers ran out of large t-shirts, forcing me to accept a finisher’s shirt which is more of a mini-dress than a shirt. When I finally arrived home, my girls begged to go on a bike ride.
The swim was in the 88-degree, tea-colored water of Lake Minneola. No wind, no waves, complete boredom. The nightmare started exited T1, when I had to mount my bike and climb an immediate slope up to right turn to exit Clermont.
Within 10 miles, I was surfing up and down hills for which I don’t even own gears. I also have little experience shifting my front derailleur, leading to an unfortunate incident whereby I over-shifted, dropped the chain off the big ring, rolled onto the soft shoulder, and flipped over the aerobars and into the ditch. I found myself under a tree, so I relaxed for a few moments, enjoying the only shade I would experience all day.
Two hours later, I was finally nearing the end of the bike leg. I was celebrating a rare piece of level asphalt by stretching across my aerobars. I swerved to barely miss a piece of tire rubber and almost crapped myself when the “tire rubber” whirled around and hissed at me. I was 50 feet past the animal before I realized that I almost clipped a gator. A dull shriek cut the air as I crested the next hill. Hopefully, the rider behind me didn’t actually hit the little critter.
The Florida Challenge bike course is not for time trial bikes. Unique among Sunshine State triathlons, this course is nearly vertical. My Garmin GPS later told me that I rode over 5000 feet of elevation, and I felt every inch.
The heat was taking a toll by mile 50. I was able to fill my aerobottle four times, thanks to the great volunteers manning the aid stations. One result of the heat was swollen feet. The sharp pain finally overwhelmed me and I stopped and peeled off my socks in a driveway, laying them across a mailbox while I got readjusted on my bike. Just as I was ready to roll, I dropped my bike bottle, and had to start all over. I was a mile down the road, entering Clermont, when I realized that my nasty socks were still drying on the mailbox.
Things seemed to be going reasonably well as I entered T2, except when I racked my bike the rear wheel slipped off and clattered to the ground. I suppose the good news is that it didn’t slip off when I was careening down a hill at 50+ mph.
The heat struck as I launched into the half marathon. The course is a 6-mile, 2-loop jaunt with no shade. I felt fine for the first two miles, right up to the point, 30 feet shy of the Clermont cheerleaders aid station, when all the fluid in my stomach decided to revisit the outside world. “Ewwwww!” sang out a chorus of young voices. Staring down, I learned that Orange and Lime Gatorade mix to create a brown swirl. This epiphany motivated my stomach to hurl the rest of it’s contents onto the ground, to another chorus of young, feminine squeals.
The next ten miles passed in a haze of heat and misery, but I was able to cross the finish line and muster enough energy to pack my gear and point my truck back towards distant Tampa. My only real complaint was that after all the miles of discomfort, the race organizers ran out of large t-shirts, forcing me to accept a finisher’s shirt which is more of a mini-dress than a shirt. When I finally arrived home, my girls begged to go on a bike ride.
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