11 March 2010
OK, so lessons learned: In almost 25 years of health care, mostly as an ER/Flight nurse and paramedic, I came to firmly believe that anything starting with the words "Hey, watch this!" had at least 50-50 odds of turning out poorly for the speaker. Somehow, I managed to forget that little pearl of wisdom this afternoon . . .
So, having had a couple of appointments this morning, and knowing the freezer was looking a little bare, I decided to stop at Sam's on the way home and stock up on meat. I explained to the nice young man at the check-out that my back had been out, and he very kindly packed it all into a nice sturdy cardboard box and had someone load it into my truck for me.
Three minutes later, I arrived home. I open the car door, look at the box, and think to myself , "It's only 10# of hamburger, 10# of chicken breasts, a couple of packages of steaks, and three 1.5# packages of sandwich meat . . . really, how heavy can it be?" (Remember here that I used to routinely tote stretchers, people and miscellaneous heavy crap around all the time . . . of course the operative phrase here is 'used to' . . .)
OK, I CAN do this . . . it's already hotter than hell here and I want to get inside out of the sun . . . I don't wanna do three trips in and out. So, "Hey, watch this!"
I got the box out of the truck. Three steps towards the door, my back said "listen, you dummy, this is a bad plan'. OK, I can think on my feet - I boost the box up to my shoulder . . . that's a little better.
I wrest the front door open, and get inside. Yay, almost there.
Halfway across the living room, I'm wondering why my right boob is suddenly cold and wet. Oh, yeah, remember those steaks? They're leaking. Crap. OK, box down on kitchen island. Every cat in the house is suddenly in the kitchen with me. Shit . . . OK, super fast unload into the frig. Of course the steaks are on the bottom of the box, under all the other crap, steadily having the juices squeezed out of them. Boy, if they're half as juicy to eat as all the stuff that leaked out of them, they're going to be rightously good. Yum . . . maybe I'll fix some of those for dinner tonight.
OK, my back hurts, so just gonna go change clothes, sponge off the steak juice, and chill. By the way, at this point I wondered why all the little carnivores were becoming less interested in the kitchen island, where the steak had bled all over the counter, and are deserting me like rats on a sinking ship. Oh, NOW I know . . .
Yes, it's because my right boob wasn't the only steak-juicy spot in the house . . . apparently I left a trail all the way from the front door to the kitchen. All the cats are now sniffing rabidly at the spots crossing the living room carpet. Well, hell!!!
So, before I sit my aching ass down, I need to scrub the bloody juice out of the carpet. It was like watching furry white sharks circle a slowly moving battleship . . . or is that old battleaxe? I shove the little brats out of the way, and inch my way across the carpet with cool water and a wash cloth. MOST of it came out . . . what's that number for Stanley Steamer again?
Next time I think "Hey, watch this!" someone just go ahead and shoot me right then. I'm just going to find the Tylenol now.
Sigh . . . we'll be having that sandwich meat for dinner tonight.