Yesterday was one of those days that life throws out every once in a while, just to remind us to stop freaking and have a good time because everything's all retarded anyhow.
It began as I fretted around the bungalow, waiting for husband to return from delivering small son to camp at the Jewish Centre. Last time son was there for camp, last year, he left shrieking "I HATE THE JEWISH CENTRE!" The fact that we're not Jewish just increased the shame.
And so I wait and wait. And wait a little more. I have 1.5 hours in which to get to the hospital in Banff for my latest descent into knee hell. I had visions of a small blonde idiot child knocking over menorahs and shrieking through tabernacles.
He was fine, as it turns out. Luke had just stopped off to buy a pork roast (as one does, directly after leaving the Jewish Center). His lawn bowling team is BBQing on Wednesday for 60 people and he had to procure as much pig as possible.
We make it to the hospital only 15 minutes late. I lie in bed there for four hours before having the operation. While I am otherwise occupied, Luke has lunch, wanders by the river, reads his book. The surgeon, vastly pregnant with twins, and wearing black rubber galoshes, uses a Mikita drill to draw three long screws from my knee. In a freak of nerve science, the general anaesthesia freezes half of my tongue--and it's still frozen, 24 hours later. I sound drunk all the time, which is as good a cover as I can think of for actually being drunk all the time.
On the way home, Luke picks up my prescription, two more pork roasts, onions, roasting pans, lemon and brining bags.
Home through a driving rainstorm, I fall into bed while Luke goes out to buy a FOURTH pork roast.
That's right: four roasts, three stores, two cities.
And one incorrect date.
Anyone wanting two or three pork roasts, come on over.
No comments:
Post a Comment