You never really appreciate your appendages until you try to kill them. I took the dogs out for their
final nightly tinkle time, got everyone in for the forthcoming treat time and promptly slammed the big ass back door right on my index finger. I began flailing about and hollering in horrendous pain. To which my loving husband, quite unenthusiastically I might add, asked “Do you need to go to the hospital?” Really? Really? This is your input? Not “shit I bet that hurt, need some ice?” or “dam, are you ok?” Nope, he went right straight to a deadpan “Do you need to go to the hospital?” And this is why I don’t understand why he didn’t understand why I was yelling at him for being a total butt head.
My beloved and now greatly appreciated index finger is going to survive. It is not broken but wowza did that hurt and does it ever still hurt. It hurts when I type. It hurts when I try to open a can of beer (which is my excuse for having downed an entire bottle of wine last night). And it even hurts when it’s doing nothing at all.
My husband has been given a pass even though he still claims he doesn’t understand what he did wrong. But you can darn well bet next time he hurts himself I will be there with an all too sarcastic “Do you need to go to the hospital?” and then maybe he will get it.
them from referring to their mother that way again. Somehow though I started saying it without even noticing and before long I was worse than them. They grew up and left the nest but the Dude-ing did not. I didn’t even realize how bad it was until this past weekend when we were out with friends and I dropped a Dude-bomb. The dude to which this was directed was not impressed and was all “I’m not your dude, dude!” And that’s when I realized I have a problem. There is no twelve step program for this affliction. I must do it all myself. I am totally catching myself saying it and smacking my hand. It, so far, has not stopped me but has at least made me brutally aware of my over-dude-izations. That darn word is unimaginably versatile. My husband so generously suggested that since the self smacking was showing little results perhaps every time I say dude I should get rid of a pair of shoes. He’s definitely got a point. I bet it would only take a few pair to fix me and I might have been on board with this until he decided he would pick the shoes, not me. Ya, that idea got the old heave hoe. If I can’t do this on my own by the first of the year I might have to revisit my husband’s torture concept.
