A Terrible Injury…and No Love


My arm fell off today. The pain was simply excruciating.  There is simply no amount of words in the English language to fully explain the level of physical discomfort that comes when one is faced with the fact that a limb that has previously been in complete simpatico with the rest of one’s body is now laying there dormant on the floor.  Now one would think that one’s spouse would offer some sort of support to the victim of this massive and catastrophic injury.  But no, simply a rolling of the eyes and a dismissive clicking of the teeth is all I was met with from my better half…now more than half since she has all her limbs.

But I digress. I don’t want to get away from the point that clearly my arm is broken.  It is facing the wrong way and I haven’t seen my own hand from quite that angle before.  Yes, I knew I had a birthmark on my hand, but seeing it now upside down is both interesting and terrifying.  I don’t mind telling you that I shed no small amount of tears when the synapses firing in my brain issued the bodily equivalent of an “All Points Bulletin” that much pain was being experienced.  Yet did I get a single, “oh, honey, I am so sorry” from my chosen spouse? Nay, I say.  All I received was a waving of her hands and a shaking of her head to indicate she cared not for my now broken limb.

So here I sit, with clearly a severely sprained elbow.  It hurts…a lot.  I can feel the tears swell up within my eyes as the fog of pain is quickly replacing the calm, cool, and collected portion of my psyche.  My arm clearly hurts as I try to remember what I’ve done to cause this massive application of negative messages from my nerve endings.  I turn to my wife, seeking comfort.  Nope, just the facepalm that I’m gradually becoming accustomed to when a massive injury befalls me.

Look, this paper-cut on my arm really hurts.  I was turning away from my kitchen counter when a piece of mail I had previously opened sliced open my arm resulting in a huge gash measuring at least 2 feet, I mean inches, no millimeters along the top of my arm.  No doubt this will result in my death.  The pain is terrible.  The only possible way this can get more painful would be if I suddenly fell into a vat of salt and lemon juice.  Outside of that awful occurrence, I can think of nothing more painful.

Yet I look over to my bride of twelve years.  There she is, sobbing over her life choices, trying to get a good selling price for her engagement and wedding rings, and attempting to tell me that I always make entirely too much out of simple and tiny injuries.  I don’t know, dear readers, can you believe I’d do something like that?

What have I done? Oh the mistakes I’ve made!

Kitty Krisis


This week has been a little rough in the good ‘ol Reese household.  My wife’s cat passed away after a long bout of sickness and it deeply upset my wife, daughter, and even ‘ol me at times.  As many of you know, over the years there’s been an uneasy truce between the cat and me, but despite that I am sorry that she’s no longer with us.

That being said, there is some potential evil on the horizon.  My wife has informed me of her desire to invite another feline into our home.  She even asked me if I’d rather have a cat or another dog, to which I gave the obvious and intelligent answer…a dog.  This was not well received.

              No, she seems hell bent on getting a cat to take the place of the old one as a member of our humble but happy family.  I am reasonably certain I cannot take another twelve to fifteen years of cat ownership at this stage of my life (stage of life=actually alive and not dead).  It must be understood that I married into “catdom” and didn’t actually seek out the inclusion of that particular “pet” into my life. Because of my love for my wife, well, I caved and put up with it.

              You all know my feelings toward cats.  It has been proven historically that cats, and the supreme reverence held for cats, led directly to the downfall of the ancient Egyptian civilization (DISCLAIMER>>There is no such evidence, in either theory or in actual tangible form that supports this idiotic notion. Time to check on the author’s brain medication), and I will not purposely invite a similar fate to our family.

You all ALSO know my role in my family, which is to go to work, come home, make some smart ass jokes, break some wind, and make my wife look good through my severe lack of social skills. By all accounts, I exceed in all three.  I also make all the important decisions in my family, but as comedian Bill Engvall said of his similar role in his family, no important decisions have arisen.  She handles the rest. This may be one of those important decisions.

              Is it worth the fight, though?  This is a tough one.  My wife can be the kindest, caring and giving woman in the world (c’mon, you know something to the contrary is about to be said, don’t you? Look at you, Mr. or Mrs. Overachiever!).  Unfortunately, however, she tends to adopt a “scorched earth” policy when it comes to arguments, so I have to decide if a particular subject is worth the nuclear holocaust and massive collateral damage that would occur from an all-out offensive.

I even told her she could have any type of dog she wanted as long as it wasn’t a cat.  Hell, drag ‘ol Cujo out from the scary Stephen King books if you want.  Want an evil Cerberus instead of a cat? Sure, I’ll gladly feed the three-headed demon as long as it isn’t a cat.  Resurrect Old Yeller? Sure, dig him up and send him our way.

Cerberus by trixdraws on DeviantArt

              Just please…not a cat.

              So, does that mean we’re going to get a second dog, or has the die been cast and there’s already a cat at our home that’s discovered peeing on my shoes as a fun hobby?

 Stay Tuned!

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