Tuesday, June 1, 2010

One for the Books

Dude, this day has kicked my ass. Not kicked ass, kicked MY ass, with steel-toed boots. I'm shocked I'm still standing. Actually, I'm not standing at all. I'm sitting with my feet up on the couch, drinking my third glass of wine, fourth if you count the one I had at 11:30 this morning. I threw the kid a bowl of granola for dinner and she mercifully ate quickly and alone. I am serious. My nerves are shot.

Let me 'splain.

I started the day by cancelling cable TV. Times are tough chez Bored Housewife, and nothing is sacred. Not even HGTV and Roseanne reruns. Then I cancelled long distance phone service, but I'm rethinking this. Now, if I call farther than a seven-mile radius from my home, I'm paying twelve cents a minute. This means that if I call Rob at work to prattle on about nothing, it will cost me twelve cents a minute, and that is too high a price to pay for prattle.

I had taken on the job of prepping some food for the PTA luncheon. So far, no problem. But as I was finishing up and washing my hands, I had a freak accident no one on this green earth could have anticipated. See, I've had this little hairline break in my engagement ring for some time. I didn't even know if the break went all the way through, and I really never thought much of it. But while I was washing my hands in the kitchen sink, the ring some how slipped or jammed or I-don't-know-what, but the upshot is the the break in the ring openned up and closed on the skin at the based of my ring finger. I couldn't believe what I was seeing, plus it hurt like a son of a bitch. I sprayed it with windex to get the ring off (it really works, try it) and tugged on the ring, but it was really pinched on there.

It eventually went all the way through the fleshy (very fleshy, if we're being honest) underside of my finger. Its like I had my finger pierced the slow painful way.

Not only was I horrified by the sight of my finger and the pain, but I had to get a huge salad, a big thing of roasted shrimp, and three flower arragements to the site of the meeting, and I was already running late. I called Rob, for twelve cents a minute, and completely fell apart, totally panicked, and after suggesting I go to the fire station to see if they could cut the ring off, a suggestion I still don't quite understand, he put me on hold and called a local jeweler, and they said they could save the finger.

Then I called the PTA president and completely fell apart on the phone with her, and another PTA lady was there, and this is the side of the conversation she heard:" Oh my God! Are you okay?! Oh my god. Okay, how about if K. comes over and takes you? Okay, she'll be there in a minute." Meanwhile, K. is thinking she is about to have to take me to the emergency room, or the police station or somewhere dramatic, but instead, E. hangs up the phone and says, "you have to take Bored Housewife to the jeweler." I had a Jewelry Emergency. I suppose if you have to have an emergency at all, the kind that involves diamond rings and going to a jewelry store is the one you want to have.

So we fly over to the jeweler, and I start crying again because it hurts, and I'm a pitiful dork, and I'm stressed about being late to this meeting, and he takes his magic plyers, like the freakin' jaws of life, and rips the ring off my finger. I think the holes left behind are impressive, but the ring is completely mangled. The ring that I love, have always loved, is a train wreck. I would like to express a theory I have that may be totally wrong: I think if you wait until your thirties or fourties to get married, you get a better ring. When you get engaged at 24, you get rings that break and try to maim you. I'm just sayin'.

When I finally got to the meeting, the ladies were all downstairs discussing important PTA issues, and after I put the food away in the kitchen I openned to fridge to see if there was an open bottle of chardonnay in there, and there was! The angels smiled on me. I poured myself a good slug of wine into a water glass, and went down to the meeting, which is how I came to be swilling the hootch before noon on a school day.

I am pefectly happy that this day is coming to an end. This day can suck it. But I have a full glass, a puppy on my lap, and love in my life, so I think I'll make it.

Can you see the holes? They're just above the wedding ring.

Poor mangled baby!


Lara Starr said...

Oh no - poor you! When my mom got divorced she had to have her ring cut off (fleshier fingers after 10 years) at first they tried some sort of procedure where they wrapped her finger in dental floss and tried to creep it up (for some reason she was initially opposed to cutting the ring from her failed marriage) and finally they cut it. I remember sitting at the table while she told the story dozens of times on the phone. Up until right know I'd always pictured her in a Dr's office - but she must have been at a jeweler.

Sorry 'bout the cable too, times are tough @ Chez Starr as well....

Bethany said...

Only YOU could manage to get attacked - let alone maimed - by your jewelry! Poor Monica! :(

lama said...

That jeweler is AMAZING! And so were you, producing a lovely salad and bouquets in the middle of the jewelry emergency. Again, you are my Hero!!