Husband was released from
prison the hospital yesterday: 2 months to the date since the drunk asshole in a borrowed SUV with SHITTY INSURANCE plowed into the motorcycle…yeah, I’m not bitter at all. But he’s home, he’s allowed to start working with crutches, and he managed it nearly three weeks earlier than we’d originally thought.
AND he’s home for our 9th anniversary, which is (of course) Halloween.
My sister EVER so kindly bought him a
hideous lovely brass bell, the kind you see on a dry cleaner’s counter. To be helpful, I’m sure. So he can get my attention (intubation is HELL on vocal cords…he’s been significantly lower-volumed since the accident) if I’m upstairs and he’s in the living room.
Because she hates me. And wants revenge for my
snarky comments about my nephew’s night-owl tendencies being karma for HER having days and nights mixed up as a baby. I was four…I remember. “But she’s helpful,” you may say… well…I would agree except for the evil glee in her eye. I suppose that could be the glassy Han-won’t-let-me-sleep effect, but I doubt it. Evil glee all the way.
Unfortunately, the bell was lost.
MORE unfortunately…that fucking thing is lost SOMEWHERE IN MY TRUCK.
That’s right…the goddamn “help me now” bell randomly dings from the dog-fur-filled-recesses of my truck, and I can’t find it.
On the bright side, neither can Husband.