I know that you are all wondering how things are going with Perpetual, (fiance). Stop bothering me about it, already, as I'm going to impart total details about his recovery, for your reading pain—I mean, PLEASURE.
In case you missed the news, several columns ago, I talked about Perpetual getting injured at work, his insurance wanting to pitch him out of the hospital, blah, blah and blah. I'm too lazy to rehash, so I will just restate his injuries for the record.
He has a shattered collarbone and five broken ribs. There, how was that for a brief description?
He was released from the care facility and is now a constant presence in the home. What I meant to say is this: He has been recuperating here, at home, for, what seems like an eternity. Boy, I am really noshing on my own toes at this point.
Perpetual is doing OK, if OK is now defined as writhing in pain, emitting sounds of near death on a regular basis, pacing to and fro, worrying about work and, in general, filling the air with a great sense of hope. (Clearly, the last line was supposed to be read with sarcasm.)
Before you think I'm a horrible person, (actually, I am, but we've known that for eons), I must say that I have been very tender, kind, loving and all that mushy jazz, during our time of bondage—I mean, togetherness. I offer support and carry out all of the obligatory gestures associated with partnerships.
Have you taken note yet that this piece has little to do with Perpetual's woes and more to do with my feelings, thoughts, frustration and emotions about the situation? Just wanted to make sure we were on the same page, which would be page 3, of this delightful publication.
In all seriousness, for just one, brief, fleeting moment, he is on the mend but it is going to take a while. He saw a doc the other day who recommended that he have surgery, pronto, or not. Yes, it was a kind of confusing diagnosis, which is par for the course in this day and age.
Back to my life, since, really, it IS all about Lisa Houserman, now, isn't it? The following is kind of a digression but, it is necessary to fill space. Plus, I'm a digression queen and I must keep up appearances.
You see, Perpetual, and I have been mad at—I mean, ABOUT each other, for approximately 11 years now. I've found that the key to our absolute success, in terms of keeping this insanity rolling, is the fact that we, under normal circumstances, do not really interact with one another.
He is typically home for about eight hours and they usually range from around 11 pm until the morning when he schlepps down the front steps, nods toward me, as I partake in a morning nicotine fix, and heads off in his van. Can you feel the sheer ecstasy of it all?
Due to his being a captive, as of late, we are really getting to know each other on a new and exciting (?) level. In other words, I believe that we might both be, well, um, how can I say...a touch tired of one another.
I know you find it hard to believe that he would not want to spend every, single, waking moment with me, but, I fear it's true. I can be a handful and am admitting it freely in print. OK, stop with those awful thoughts.
He has discovered some bizarre traits of mine and I have unearthed some adorable habits of his. For instance, I was driving him about in his van the other week and was accused of being a “flipper.” That would pertain to the fact that I flip from radio station to station with speed and agility. This was being brought to light as I had the air conditioner blasting, whilst he enjoyed fresh air via an open window. Just two examples in order to clarify the matter.
Also, I've never had to explain where Such and Such is located, in terms of a kitchen item, as much as I have lately. As we all know, some members of our species have a difficult time actually looking about for Such and Such and refuse to move Item A in order to find Item B. That was a major swerve in the thesis, I know.
In closing, and good gravy but it's time, I have to say that my heart goes out to all retired couples in the reading region. I know that many look forward to Hubby, or Wife, ceasing work so that total bonding can unfold. However, it is now abundantly clear to me that the whole scenario can be a tad, (if tad is now defined as overwhelmingly), trying, to say the least. (Grating on the nerves might be a better description.) Could this be why many retirees seek employment as Walmart greeters? Hmm, that's something on which to ponder.
Well, I must dash in order to aid Perpetual in his attempts to locate the kitchen floor. Wish me luck and hold me, of course.
THE END.