Testing those Vows

So, if you’ve been following the twitters you know that my delightful husband, The Engineer, was away on business last week and while away, he injured his knee and had to have emergency knee surgery in Colorado Springs, CO.   The surgery was on Sunday, he flew home on Monday and I’ve been watching over him since then.

Well.. yesterday we took him to his first PT appointment and our wonderful PT ( I mean it… WONDERFUL.  LIVE SAVINGLY WONDERFUL) decided that before he did any work on the Engineer’s knee, he was going to has him checked out for blood clots.   They say that there are three things that cause clots (besides lifestyle choices):  Injury, Surgery, and Flying.  The Engineer had done all THREE in the last 72 hours.  

Thank God we had him checked out and had an ultrasound performed because they found that the two big veins behind his knee were completely blocked with multiple clots.  Had they not known and he performed the PT as prescribed, they could have loosened a clot and .. well.. we won’t go there. 

So the day that was suppose to be a 2 hour PT appointment turned into a 8 hour trip ending at the ER.

Here we are… we know there are blood clots in the knee but we’re still up beat.  I mean.. the check-in to the ER was so smooth and quick!!

He decides to test out the floor space in the triage room.  At one point he was even using one of his crutches as an “air guitar”. 

It’s all fun and games until:

1. The ER doctor gets stern with you and your husband for not taking things seriously
2. You’ve been in the ER for 4 hours and the last time you ate anything was 6 hours prior to that
3. It’s cold, your tired, your husband is tired and uber cranky, and you just want to figure out what’s going on

Finally, the ER doctor told us that since the clots are below his knee, he at less of a risk of having one migrate to a vital organ than if the clots were above his knee.  They told us to wait until the admitting Doctor came to check on us to release us.  

TWO hours and 2 Buddy’s BBQ plates for dinner later, he finally got released.  

They put the husband on blood thinner, gave him strict instruction to “TAKE IT EASY” and sent us home. 

Where we are now.   Cleaning up the DRV and taking it easy. 

Well…I might have been asking for it…maybe

So.. my cat.   I love my cat.  We got him from the humane society about two years ago when he was just a wee little tike.   I had never had an orange cat before and neither had the Engineer, so I figured.. why not?   Our The Engineer’s calico needed a playmate and I wanted an orange cat.  Seemed easy right??  So I waited and waited and waited until the shelter got a load of orange kitties and ran down to take my claim.  He was charming and adorable, and full of personality and he was to be mine…all mine.  

Well… I’ve learned alot in the last 2 years.    Namely that my orange cat is every bit as spoiled as his owner and a gazillion times as snarky/mean.   

Example:  Recently I’ve fallen back into the “OMG MY FEET ARE SOO FREAKIN COLD… WHY CAN’T WE AFFORD HEAT???” syndrome, only to have my husband remind me that it’s 9000 90 degrees outside and ”Over my dead body will we even THINK about turning on the heat… No not even for 5 minutes….. go put some damn socks on and quit whining”.  Humph…

Well… I’m not fond of socks and neither is my cat.  Apparently he believes he is a much better foot warmer than any 50% cotton/ 50% poly woven-in-Indonesia foot covering could ever be, and finds it insulting that I should even think about putting these offensive abominations on my feet.     He then makes it’s his mission to rid me of the horrors that are socks.   

Exhibit A

 

So.. yesterday.. while getting ready for bed… Buster is laying, belly up, on the hard wood floors in the living room, as if to say “Hey mom… look at my A.DOOR.A.BULL belly spots.  Don’t you wanna pet me.. and please, don’t exert any energy bending down.. your foot will do just fine”.   I.. feeling cheeky (and really knowing better), decide to torture antagonize taunt rub his belly with my socked foot (in my defense.. he looked soooo cute).  In my pursuit for cuteness (and to amuse my husband) I made up an on-the-spot clever ditty to go along with the torture petting.

[To the tune of a certain song by Gloria Estefan and the Miami Sound Machine]

(I may have been roughly petting the cat with a foot covered in a sock, which I know he hates… during prime “Time to pounce on anything that moves” hour… I do not recall the exact circumstances of the situation)

Me: The Puma Socks gonna get you, Puma Socks gonna get you, Puma Socks gonna get you … Ohhhh

Me:  Puma Socks gonna get you… To-ni………..OWWWWWW.  You Fucking BIT ME!   

Husband: <smirking>  Whoooooo’s going to get you??

Damn cat.   One day I’ll follow through on my threat to sell him to the circus, but not today.  Today.. he’s really too cute.