oft' go to hell in a handbasket.
I'm home right now. I should be in Mexico, drinking beer & eating lobster.
It's Saturday night. B & i are up in Hesperia, at our friends. We have eaten steak (yum), seen fireworks & are gathering in the living room for a yak fest.
And here's where it goes to hell in a handbasket.
Someone comes running in, saying something that sounds like "your husband broke his finger."
Broken finger? Brendan? Nahhh.
Here he comes, his face the color of concrete. My friend's mom, another Valerie, is behind him. He has a towel over his hand, and i see blood.
Blood. Not good.
So, believe it or not, i MAKE him sit down. He was just standing there. So i pulled back the towel and thought, "hey, this doesn't look too bad."
Then he turned his hand over.
(here comes the gross part)
There's a laceration about 1/2 long, and deep. How deep? Deep enough so i can see his bone.
Hi Ho, Hi Ho, It's Off To The Hospital We Go.
I won't give a blow by blow of all 5 hours there in Emergency. Sufficed it to say he got 5 stitches, and luckily, didn't break it, only dislocated it. One or two good pulls by a cute blonde PA and he was good to go. Literally. A tetanus shot & antibiotics followed.
So needless to say, we decided against Mexico.
But how did this happen? My darling, wonderful, usually intelligent husband decided he was going to ride TWO Razor scooters at once. Hit a rock. Down you fall.
If there's a lesson to learn (and there is), it's don't think you're Evel Knevel at 45. It ain't gonna happen. All you'll get is a trip to emergency.
And 5 stitches.