Yeah, I know you woke up yesterday and there was nothing for you to read or contemplate, or whatever. My sincerest apologies to you. I must admit father’s day had taken a bigger toll on me than I had imagined it would. Remember when I said, let dad shoot that round of golf in the house and do his homework in peace? Well, that was more of a personal appeal than anything else, and lo and behold I found my self on the 12th green in the backyard after dinner and a quiet couple of hours before that working diligently on a paper that was going to be due next week.
Again, back to the golf. There I was, I waggled, watched the ball, talked myself through it, psyched myself up, and was promptly smacked in the face with a pitching wedge wielded by my ten-year old son. That sucked I thought, until he started screaming as what can only be described as the Niagara falls of blood came pouring from my right eyebrow. I just knew it wasn’t nearly as bad as it looked but on the other hand I also knew that if I let the wife get ahold of it, I would end up in the emergency room, being laughed at by nurses as I described how a child bludgeoned my with my own father’s day present. So into the house I went.
My wife did freak out and was busy calling the insurance as I was standing in the bathroom with some tape and superglue. I did tape the thing shut but before I could deploy the glue I was ordered into the car and whisked off to the emergency room.
Yes, the nurses laughed and laughed. Apparently my situation was the funniest thing to happen to them all day. It couldn’t have been the other 60 people they had seen that day, 30 who just needed a motrin, that they would dutifully charge medicare $18 each, the 10 or so people who came wanting some kind of narcotic to “ease their suffering” or the half a dozen psych ward screamers, who always seem to be in the bed either right next to me or right across from me. And while I don’t generally have a problem with screamers, waiting to scream until I am talking to the doctor isn’t cool man. Come to think of it, maybe I should have asked for some narcos while I was there. Instead, they shot my face full of lidocaine and gave me three stitches then sent me home. All of that only took two and a half hours, plus they’ll bill the insurance probably $2500 for the visit. I’ll let you know when I find out just how much. But really I could have done the same thing for free with the superglue.
All of that is why I didn’t feel like writing diddly on Monday.