Moral of Story: Wear More Than Shorts When Riding Motorcycle

Home From The Hospital-Week 2

I'm feeling like a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of a cast member of "Stomp's", shoe. All that aside, I'm feeling much better than I did last week. Currently, I'm playing couch commando; firing shots at B from across the room as we battle for control of the remote. So far this morning, I'm gleefully grasping the remote in one hand and making him watch "Charmed". I truly am evil. ::insert maniacal laughter here::

I am annoyed at B as he feels oddly obligated to tell everyone we cheated Death. This, in my opinion, is like announcing that you cheated a mafia boss out of his drug money -- loudly, and in front of him. Death will probably come and kick our asses any minute because of B's loud boasting.

As for the guy that hit us, he has neither been incarcerated nor captured. I have, though, sent him some bad juju in the form of an itchy butt curse. It is my devout prayer that he spend the rest of his life squirming in his chair not being able to find relief from the terrible, constant itching. Speaking of itching, OH MY FREAKING GOD does healing itch! Thank GOD/DESS for Benadryl, without which I'd be driven insane by the constant need to scratch. It is all I can think about when I'm not taking the wondrous Benadryl, which is my new drug of choice.

B made another announcement. This time he has firmly stated we will no longer ride/own motorcycles. I understand his reluctance to get on a bike again, but I'm leaning toward categorizing him as a total wuss. I mean, come on! What do a few flesh wounds and broken bones really matter in the grand scheme of things? On the plus side, he hasn't thought to take away my new Dodge Charger (which I drive at a rate of speed which would make the fictional characters Bo and Luke Duke shriek in fear), so I'll still be able to have my adrenaline rush while weaving in and out of traffic around town (this is probably what promotes Brownie's firm declaration that she will always be the one to drive when we go out).

As for September, I'm planning on heading home. I want to drive back, but B isn't going to be able to come with so I'll probably fly (unless I somehow fool B into believing I flew when I really drove). Brownie is coming home the end of September and I hope to get our schedules together in order to see her and everyone else. Plus, I want to be healed up enough that I'm not walking around while holding my ass and moaning out loud. The end of September is probably the quickest I'll be able to get back to the tundra.

Lurve you all! ::hugs:: <--yes, the painkillers make my a lot more friendly than I usually am.

Hospital Not Fun

After much deliberation, B and I have decided that hospitals are not the barrel of laughs we thought they'd be. Last Friday, after being knocked off our motorcycle at 45 mph by a car that side-swiped us, we made a little visit to the local ER. First of all, the ambiance is SO institutional. They say beige is soothing, but in this case, no. Too bad they don't embrace the whole Florida room idea somewhere in their blah hospital rooms. They cling to drab like there is no tomorrow, which I suppose for some there isn't.

Luckily, B and I got to check out of the hospital within three days. Boy was I glad to be out of there. B has a broken thumb, middle finger and the cutest little blue cast. Both of us have "Road Rash" all over our legs and arms. Bleck.

Hope you all are doing well! Miss ya'!