I haven’t posted for the past little while because: a) the nose and b) I’m so aggravated with the other gender (okay, one certain member of the other gender) that it would be horribly un-PC to vent my spleen here.
So, the nose is fine. Just making me cranky, cranky, cranky. All my instincts on wound care suggest that after a day or two you stop molly coddling yourself, whip that bandage off, grit your teeth and starting washing it like the rest of your body’s surface. I did that. Kept my dear nose nice and clean. I didn’t fully understand that I was supposed to also keep it wet. (You know the old joke about what dermatologists learn during 8 years of medical training: If it’s dry, wet it. If it’s wet, dry it. And that usually works.) It seemed counter-intuitive to let it get all shriveled, white and oogy under a bandage all day and night. I’d change the bandage and think, nice! A three day dead goldfish plastered in the middle of my face! So, I left it off, kept it clean and in very short order I had a gross scabbed over incision. With no infection. Seemed fine. Until it came time to get those stitches removed. Couldn’t even find them anymore.
The doctor shook his head, sent me away with a handful of bandaids and ointment and then I went back a few days later. I had the stitches removed but really, a couple had sneezed loose on their own and this divot is deeper than it is wide so I still have an itchy hole in my nose. Under an itchy bandaid and they don’t make those the right size or color so it’s always partially stuck to tender places and it’s always just RIGHT OUT THERE, calling the whole world to stop and stare. Not really. I’m imagining things. It’s not all that bad, healing slowly from the inside out, growing new cells every moment and life goes on for us lucky ducks with not a lot else to complain about.
Unless you count that fool, that clod, that denser than library paste my darling spouse. But I’m reluctant to go into all that, especially after that recent expose of the children. Blogs, after all, are not for airing your (husband’s) dirty laundry. As far as I’m concerned, the best blogs are the nature ones and the funny ones and the interesting ones that teach me something I didn’t know. The ones that make me think and the ones with beautiful photography. The other thing is, once you start badmouthing your loved one, it’s a great opportunity for his old friends from college to write you a concerned and somewhat chastising earnest e-mail and everyone else to think, “oh, how tacky. Lucky for me I’m married to God’s gift to womankind who would never ever do anything that stupid or inconsiderate.”
To wit: Your husband is happy to go with you to the grocery store, intuitively knows what you all need, where it is, the right amount to buy, how to do it all economically and it’s probably a fun, quality-time sort of outing, right? How fortunate you are.
We went today. Usually I do all the major grocery shopping and then, in between and when necessary, I’ll right down a short list and off he’ll go.
“Rich could you go get me some milk and romaine hearts?”
“Sure. Make a list.”
“You don’t need a list. It’s milk and romaine hearts.”
“Well, just write it down.” So I write down ‘1 qt 2%milk and 1 package of 3 romaine hearts’. He comes home with the milk and a box of granola bars.
Today, we went together. He is having some very legitimate dietary concerns that are in no way his fault and we’re having to change some of our eating habits away from carbs, pasta, etc. Plus, we continue to aim for less meat, more GREEN green and so forth. These changes are resulting in his spending a lot of time hanging on the open refrigerator door wondering what to eat, so I thought, okay, let’s go together and do some thoughtful planning and shopping.
I don’t know if you remember when, early in our relationship, he was banned for life from Costco because he bought a 36# bag of cheese balls and six 48 bottle cases of Fruit-O water with artificial sweetner? And the giant trampoline? I believe I posted photos. Anyway, today was deju vu. I worked my way calmly around the perimeter of the store, turning every few moments to ask, for example, “how many of these Georgia peaches do you think? They look great and they’re in season…” but Rich was nowhere to be seen. Five minutes later he comes back with two 24 ounce containers of raisins. That’s 48 ounces of raisins. Three pounds. One thousand, three hundred, sixty-one grams. The two of us, together, have eaten less than one minibox, individual portion of raisins in all the time we’ve know each other. And that was on an airplane when there was nothing else. But, say! They’re buy one, get one! So (even though they are loaded with sugar and sulfur preservative) they’re a GREAT DEAL. I move on to GreenWise meats, with my stomach still churning from seeing Food, Inc. but thinking maybe some free range chicken on the grill might be good. Rich is gone and when he returns he has 4 Family Size 1# packages of Hormel cold cuts.(Hormel. Did we or did we not just watch the same film together three nights ago?) He informs me that he’s not going to eat a lot of bread with these- just the cold cuts. I’m so reassured.
One problem, of course, is that he never cleans out the refrigerator. I know, I know- your guy does it routinely. But mine is not having to throw out the slippery meat, green cheese shreds and empty dairy containers. Today, he graciously said he would bring in all the groceries and I said, thanks, that will give me a few minutes to make space in the frig. Right now, 5 hours later, everything that doesn’t go in the frig is sitting in the middle of the entryway. Cat litter, laundry detergent, paper towels, red wine. I put the cold stuff away and in order. At least the red wine is handy, right where I’ll fall over it.
On the other hand, if I do nothing and leave it all precisely where it is, where we have to high jump over it to get in or out the door and I ask him sweetly for, say a glass of wine, he’ll looked perplexed and ask, “Where is it?” I’ll respond sweetly,”Why dear, it’s right there in the entryway on the doormat.” He’ll say okay and go off obligingly to get me a glass of red wine. One minute later he’ll be back and announce, “It’s not there.” I’ll say, “Why, yes, dear, it’s right there where you left it-ON THE MAT.” He’ll go off again and two minutes later (because he’s searching harder) come back and state flatly, “It’s not there. I can’t find it.” At that point, since he’s driven me to drink, I get up, fetch the bottle of wine on the entry mat, and pour myself a tumbler. I drink that while putting away the rest of the groceries.
While I’m putting away the groceries, slamming doors, muttering and drinking- and any spouse who isn’t dense as library paste would be thinking “I should probably just leave her alone for a while” he’ll come in and ask, “Have you seen the cord to my Nintendo thingy?” He has this very ancient little pocket Nintendo that he plays suduko on, nightly and in the bathroom. He plays the extra difficult, speed games because he feels it helps him with his memory, which he doesn’t want to lose as he grows older. As far as I know he’s so smart and he has one of those minds that is so analytical and so figure oriented that there isn’t a single level that he hasn’t done at the highest speed.
“No, dear, I haven’t seen the cord. Is it in the power strip next to the bed where it usually is?” “Not there. I looked.” And then, while I am in the foulest mood of the month, he plays the trump card: “Where did you put it? I know you moved it somewhere…” While I can think of numerous comments about where I might put his power cord, I explain that I have no use at all for the cord, nothing I own fits it, I have no reason whatsoever to move it. “Have you looked in your roller bag since you got back from Philly?” “I didn’t take it to Philly.” Me: “Are you sure? Usually when you go away for a few days you pack it and you haven’t unpacked yet…” (Because it’s only been two weeks and it’s more fun to leave it in the entryway of the walk-in closet, causing me to either be the harpy that he knows and loves or, perhaps I’ll unpack it. In which case he’ll have a years worth of, “Where did you put my_____ when you unpacked my roller bag?”
But the Nintendo thingy isn’t working and he can’t remember now where he last plugged it in so no doubt it is where I have hidden it, along with his golf gloves, the large screw driver, his sandals and the Fed Ex envelope that came today. And so forth and so on.
There. Now that that is out of my system I’ll be able to move on to something slightly less trivial tomorrow. About how, if women were in charge of all the agri-business in this country, we wouldn’t be in the f-ing high fructose corn syrup, e-coli tainted, obese, cruel to animals, doomed to failure mess that we’re in in this country. Don’t ask me how I know. I’m going to explain it to you…(raisins, anyone?)