I will be the first to admit I'm not good in crisis situations. I don't like nasty things. This is everything from broken bones up to and including bathing the cat and dog. If they start spazzing, I'm out of there. I do not want to be present when the wet kitty shake down occurs. If I wanted a seat in the splash zone, you'd see me at Sea World in a dolphin hat. Well, probably sans the dolphin hat, in french sans means: dolphin hat a-no-no. I have some sense. No offense intended to those who do like to sport hats with sea mammals. But please don't count on me to be there during a red alert because if I find opportunity, I'm going to run. That says a lot because I have no sense of urgency. I'm a doddler, and my heart goes steady like a metronome simply because I avoid situations that cause palpitations. I don't know CPR, I have no clue what to do in the case of an automobile accident, and if by chance...some anonymous person...accidentally drops a jar of pickles in the grocery store, I nonchalantly walk away or pretend to be offended by the mysterious felon who smashed them pickles to the ground and took off. To the child I avoided the other day with a bloody nose, I would like to say that I am sincerely sorry, but my interaction would have just made your situation worse. I hope you got that looked at. To sum up: I am not your go-to girl when bad things happen. I have three options for crisis situations that may be of interest to you. The basic package is this: something bad happens and I casually walk away as though nothing worth mentioning has occurred. The preferred solace package that I offer: A look of disgust and possible verbing (which may also be referred to as vomiting) depending on the extent of physical damage and blood loss to your person. You may also upgrade to the premium solace package: A look of uncomfortable surprise, a statement of your choice ("whoopsies", "oh dear", or "my bad"), and I will excuse myself to find somewhere to verb that isn't in your sight line or audible bubble. Please make your selection pre-crisis or you will be left with whatever improvisational reaction comes about. I've set up a Pay Pal account solely for the purpose of booking your preferred crisis reaction. You're welcome.
Boyfriend's most recent birthday leads me to think that there is somebody out there that is looking out for me. I had to work on Boyfriend's birthday and let me tell you why that's a good thing: there was a crisis of gross proportions.
It was a sweltering day in the hottest July Vancouver had ever seen. Actually, July wasn't that great, I must be thinking about late August. The point is that it wasn't raining on the annual day we celebrate Boyfriend's birth, which, I suppose one calls his birthday. Let's stick with calling it that. I was away working, probably not working hard, but I reason that I wasn't hired to do that, but rather, employed based on my offbeat charming personality. Either way, I was not present for a good portion of the day, so what I can tell you next is based off of retellings by those present and edited accounts of those tellings based off of my memory and interest in what transpired.
Three amigos planned to set sail aboard Boyfriend's friend's sailboat. It was the perfect day for it, so the boys waited for the tide to be in their favour and they ventured abroad. They watched the sun move across the sky as they spent the afternoon tacking and jibing and I assume, pretending to be pirates. The good news is they didn't come back with stolen booty, otherwise I would have killed Boyfriend. Probably not killed him, but definitely given him eyes that made him look like a panda bear. The point is, they returned to the marina intact.
What happened next was a little unclear. So, for storytelling sake, this is how it happened: They arrived back to the dock, and tied up the vessel (that's right, I kind of speak the boating language) and popped a bit of the bubbly...no wait, it was beer...to toast boyfriend for not turning forty yet. Somehow, and I'm not saying how, but it was inferred that what happened after the elbow lifts occurred because of this activity. Boyfriend didn't make it off the boat entirely safely. By that I mean he kind of fell. By kind of, I mean, Boyfriend toppled big time. The result of that falling was slicing his palm open on a nail somewhere either on the boat or dock or hanging in midair, I cannot say. It carved a new line across his hand that would make a gypsy palm-reader shudder. Boyfriend held a rouge geyser in his hand, but again based on my understanding he had another beverage before he showed his amigo how bad it was. The other amigo was gone at this point I think. Doesn't matter, this post isn't about him. It's about Boyfriend and this one boyfriend of his that helped him out in a crisis situation. This amigo, he's a smart guy, genius in fact. Almost to a freaky extent. But he's a good amigo that stood by Boyfriend in his time of need. While Boyfriend's palm-sized Old Faithful turned his hand into a miniature Yellowstone Park, he and his amigo kicked around the idea of going to the hospital. The finale to this great debate was, I'm sure, something like: I don't want to spend my birthday in the emergency room waiting to get stitched up. How about you just fix it up for me? Please note that this is not verbatim, but I'm sure a rather close guess as to how it went down. So, the two amigos stumbled to the pharmacy to buy all the gauze thingmys and medicated cream whatsits and a pile of other stuff that was ridiculous. Then they stumbled to our itsy bitsy apartment.
Exit me from work. I call Boyfriend to see if he's home, and he is, says he and his amigo are hanging out at our house. Great, I'll see you in a few minutes. As I approach the building, Boyfriend and Mutt are outside so Mutt can lift a leg. In his hand, Boyfriend clutches a baseball. Maybe he and Mutt were playing fetch or something, I don't know. When I get closer, I realize, that ain't no baseball. It's gauze piled high and mighty to keep Old Faithful from exploding again. Gross.
Boyfriend explains what happened, framing it in a way that doesn't make him sound stupid, then we get inside and the amigo explains what he saw then tells me all the medicinal jargon that he did to Boyfriend's messed-up hand. He tells me to look at it in the morning and if it looks infected, go to the hospital. Right, give me the job that will make me want to verb. Do I want Boyfriend to be an amputee? No. Guess I have to look at that nasty palm in the morning.
Mountainous ridges. Lumpy pink skin traces the outline of Boyfriend's gash. Looking closely, I see a tiny explorer dressed in dungarees propelling down the deep walls of Boyfriend's cut. I didn't even need to see the whole wound. Didn't have to. That shit is infected. Does your head hurt? Kind of. Mister amigo says that will be the hangover. Does your hand hurt? Yes. To the hospital! That's not what my amigo said it would look like if it was infected. Yes it is. We both look down and see the tiny explorer waving at us from inside the cave of dried blood. We uncomfortably wave back at him. Your amigo said if it looks like this we have to go see a doctor. Call the ambulance! Relax, I'll call him. Boyfriend chats on the phone to his amigo, at one point requesting a third opinion and holds while his amigo calls his sister who is a nurse or surgeon or dental assistant or something. Boyfriend hangs up the phone. I'm going to need a coffee before we go to the doctor. My Boyfriend ladies and gentlemen.
We go and it doesn't take too much time to get his hand looked at and re-bandaged. They said amigo did a great job with it. Seriously, the man is smart. Super smart. Super duper smart. I'm done now. Moving on. They just suggested that if something like this happens again, the best thing to do is get it stitched up right away, even though the fastener thingys that amigo put on did the job, something about the stitches were the better way to go.
In conclusion: I think amigo should live closer to us so the next time something happens we can call him and he can deal with it. It'll make me feel less guilty when I walk away.
Time for tea,
K
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