When Things Go Horribly Wrong ..

... Or in other words, a pretty normal day in our house.

There is no doubt in my mind that my family is accident prone and I totally blame my husband.  Through high school he worked at a veterinary clinic. Usually he worked with the animals but one day he was required to dig a drainage  ditch. He threw a large rock out over the edge of the ditch, only to have it bounce back and hit him square on the head, resulting in concussion and a couple of stitches. I knew him back then too, in fact I was the one that sat there mopping his fevered brow for the afternoon making sure he didn't lose consciousness, so really I shouldn't be surprised at how things have turned out. 

I could go on and on about the occasion he crashed into a truck and received a battery acid burn, or the number of times he cut sliced open his hand with wood carving tools, but I wasn't there, so it wouldn't be a firsthand account. I'll just fast forward to the day with the power tools. 

You can understand why I would  have some trepidation when he goes out to the garage to and fires up the power tools.  Every time I hear the noise of the band saw, I'm always poised to dial 911. So one day I hear him turn off the machinery, then a couple of minutes later the front door opens and a weak voice calls out "Kel, I need your help". Of course I come running, fearing the worst, and the first thing I see is his hand dripping blood. My immediate thought was how many finger tips has he cut off ? Then I look up and see blood streaming down his face. What in the hell happened to him ?

Turns out it wasn't the fault of the band-saw at all. Rob was lowering the garage door and he brought it down on his head, a piece of the metal latch had given him a scalp wound which bled like a son of a bitch, but fortunately didn't need stitches. Now you would think after one such incident, that would be a lesson learned. Well, you'd be totally wrong, because you've guessed it, he did it again, and not too long afterwards. The second time around I just threw an ice pack at him and called him an idiot. The way I see it, I have a finite amount of sympathy in my lifetime, and I don't want to use it all up at once. This is the part where all his lady friends chorus "Poor Rob!".

Finally - and I know my husband's version of these events would be totally different, but too bad, if he wants to have his say he can start his own blog - there is the fable of the Fondue Fork. This calamity took place in the pre-children years, when we actually had the time and a tidy enough house to entertain. We had friends over for a fondue. Rob was being an ass and giving me a hard time over something so I threatened him with my fondue fork - you know the kind with the really sharp little dagger points on the end. Unfortunately, he moved as I was waving the fork around and he impaled his leg on it.  He insists I stabbed him on purpose, but although he has given me plenty of cause to do that in the last 30 odd years, any criminal act on my part would be way more subtle, and there definitely wouldn't be any witnesses. I maintain he threw himself on the fork, and after extricating it from his leg (with the barbed prongs, it probably hurt more coming out than it did sinking into his flesh!) we adjourn to the bathroom. By this time - to hear him tell it - blood was gushing from a wound in his thigh. I always say I do not exaggerate in these blogs, so I'm not going to start now. There was in fact a tiny little trickle of blood, but that didn't stop him from swearing like a trooper and angrily accusing me of grievous bodily harm - as if. If he'd only sat still this wouldn't have happened.  I'm sure if I had apologised profusely it would have blown over, but do you have any idea how difficult it is to deliver a heartfelt apology when you are laughing uncontrollably ? And yet another opportunity to say "Poor Rob".