While moving the mower yesterday afternoon to make way for my car in the garage, Lloyd managed to trip and fall onto the machine. He has lovely bruise on his forehead and a cut, inflicted by the frame of his glasses, on the bridge of his nose. I’m glad I have an alibi for this because he’ll be claiming that I did the damage.
He called me at work to let me know he had lost the fight with the mower. So I’m trying to tell him where the ice bag and the bandages are. He’s telling me that the cut is not in a place that will take bandages; furthermore, he has too much to do for an ice bag—not to mention that his head hurts too much to put anything on it. Well, take a lortab, I tell him, unless your pupils are not the same size or you feel nauseous. If you’ve got a concussion, the doctor won’t like it if you’ve taken a pain pill. No, no, this isn’t bad enough to run to the emergency room, he tells me. He just wants sympathy, someone to metaphorically pat his hand and say, “There, there, it’s all right.”
The quote for today is from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (20th century), American poet. Collected Works, Vol. 2, Table Talk (1852):
A torn jacket is soon mended; but hard words bruise the heart of a child.
;^) Jan
1 comment:
I was trying to imagine how Lloyd could check out his eyes to see whether or not his pupils were the same size or not....Lol! Poor man! No sympathy!
I sense no sympathy coming from his darling wife at all, poor man! (Methinks you know him too well Jan..Lol!) He probably has a nose on him like a Griffin now....bless his cotton socks!
His contusion has more than likely seeped underneath both his eyes, lending even more oh! and ah! Panda-like eye appeal too.
Tell him I hope he feels a bit better today. There! There! There! You'll be alright Lloyd.
<smiling at both of you> Jeanie
p.s. What is a drafter?
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