Karmic

John's been under the weather.  He has a cold.  A common cold. 

We're about as different as two people can be, in many different areas.  When I get symptoms of an illness, I deny it until it's undeniable.  I'm feeling a little sinus pressure, must be the weather.  Fever of 104?  How did that happen?  It'll break.  I'll be fine.  Until I feel like ass, I'm not sick.  I can think my way out of it.  If I admit I'm sick then suddenly I feel sick. 

Not hubby.  If he sneezes, he settles in to the mindset that he is ill.  He moves in to this line of thinking, makes himself comfortable, and stays there.  I am highly amused by this.

My Facebook status read:  "Public Service Announcement: John has a cold. We will be accepting visitors this evening for those of you who want to come by and pay your last respects, as he is CLEARLY on his deathbed. That is all."

He asked for chicken noodle soup for dinner.  Not his favorite--but if that doesn't mean he's really sick, well then I just don't know what does.  He asked me if he had a fever.  He wanted advice as to what meds to take.  He punctuated his sentences with sniffles.  This whole dog and pony show reminds me of when Morgan and Chuck were little and would try to get out of school.  I texted his brother and parents to warn them of his inevitable demise.  Oh boy, did I have fun with this.     

"I'm glad something like me being sick ::sniff:: gives you sooooo much joy ::sniff::.", he smarted. 

Yeah, it does.  It's not the fact that he's sick, necessarily.  It's the whole production that accompanies his illness.  It's high quality entertainment. 

It's all fun and games 'til he gets the baby sick, which is unavoidable.  Then the joke's on me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Last year, we had a nest of yellow jackets under a tree.  John got stung every time he mowed the lawn.  My father suggested pouring gasoline down the hole and lighting it on fire.  Which he did.  And subsequently singed the hair off his leg.

Morgan and I were on the back deck when he comes limping back there, all "Y'all didn't HEAR that?"  From the way he was carrying on, you'dve thought we missed a bomb going off in the front yard.  With an explosion so forceful, he lost a limb. 

After he explains himself, Morgan and I laughed hysterically.  The whole sight was hilarious. 

Somewhere amidst this debacle, my sister calls and I try to coherently relay what's just happened.  It was a little difficult, as I was laughing so hard I found it hard to breathe, much less talk.  After she hears this, she asks why he would do something so "dumb". 

Because YOUR daddy told him to, I replied.

Yeah, did dad mention how that worked out for him when he tried it?

No.  What happened?

He ended up having to call the effin' FIRE DEPARTMENT!!




And just when I thought I couldn't possibly laugh any more . . . . .

Ahhhhh, goodtimes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I have often wondered why humans are equipped with some of the physical and anatomical attributes we have.  The appendix , for instance, has yet to be proven useful.  It serves no purpose and can eventually lead to problems.  Why do we have it?  I dunno.  It could hold the answer to the cure for several terminal illnesses for all I know, but that has yet to be revealed.

And why do we need hair in some of the places we have it?  Like on my chin?  What evolutionary purpose could that have possibly served? 

I can now answer why I have hair on my forearms.   

Lastnight, I went to light the grill to cook dinner.  I've done this no less than a hundred times and never had any problems.  I completely forgot about the faulty regulator that has been replaced since I last used it.  I was used to lighting it with the broken one--it never allowed enough gas in to the grill. 

The good news is, the new regulator works---all too well.  The bad news is, I have no hair on my right forearm.  It was singed off from the enormous flame that came shooting out of the grill when I lit it.  Whoosh!

So, turns out, one of the purposes of hair on the arm is to protect flesh from being melted off when an idiot, like myself, tries to light a gas grill.  It's the only thing that saved my arm from second degree burns.  My hand got fried, my arm is no worse for the wear.  No need to thank me for this little nugget of invaluable information, just doin' my part to help my fellow man. 

John was nothing but empathetic and helpful--outwardly.  On the inside, I know he was laughing his ass off. 

And I would have been, too.