July 04, 2008
God Bless Wisconsin
"Keep pressure on it! Stop looking at it! Keep the napkin on it!"
It was like driving a five-year old to the clinic.
Except... wait.
"Where's the clinic?" I asked Husband.
PJ was driving because it was her car. I was in the front because I get car-sick. Husband was in the back because he had a gun-related injury.
"You don't know where the clinic is???" PJ asked incredulously.
"Well, in the 38 and a half years that I have been coming up here, I've never had to GO to the clinic... until I met Husband."
"Really?" said Husband. "I think it's in the same building as the library. You know, by the Community Center."
"Oh, that's right! PJ, take a left here."
So PJ dropped Husband and I off at the Clinic/Library, and then went to pick up our steaks for dinner. Husband had ordered six, inch-thick ribeyes from the local rancher/slaughterer/butcher. (I know -- could Husband get any more manly? It's almost like we had never planned a vacation around an Amish Quilt Show!)
We went inside and immediately started bickering.
"Hi, my husband needs stitches."
"No, I don't. It stopped bleeding. See?"
"Don't drip on the carpet. It looks new."
"I'm fine."
"Why don't you let the doctor be the judge of that?"
"I don't even know why we're here."
"Would you keep the napkin on it!"
Tactfully, the doctor stepped in with, "Why don't you let me take a look at it. I'll be able to tell right away if you'll need stitches or not." She lifted the napkin. "You can check in with Donna and then come right to room number one."
I tried to look as smug as humanly possible while I filled out the forms for him. Meanwhile, Donna had a question of her own.
"So how did you injure your thumb?"
Husband and I looked at each other.
Being from Illinois -- and, more specifically, the Chicago area, i.e. The Kingdom of Daley -- Husband and I have been trained to believe that guns posess a life of their own, often jumping out of closets and from behind bushes randomly killing people, and therefore should only be owned by crazy people and criminals. We knew we were going to jail for touching one.
"Well," I began. "We were at the shooting range..."
The nurse smiled and nodded knowingly, "Ah. I see. You can go on back, Mr. Husband. The doctor is waiting for you."
And that was it.
No sirens. No police reports. No interrogation. No body cavity searches.
In Wisconsin, as long as you don't "accidentally" shoot your no-good brother-in-law, gun-related injuries don't even warrant a raised eyebrow or sideways glance.
I love those darn cheddarheads.
So here's Husband's badge of brazen machismo.
The silver lining to this whole ordeal is that, if Husband hadn't needed emergency care, I might have gotten an even worse sunburn that afternoon.
My badge of brazen idiocy.
Comments
Amish quilt show? You are a way bigger gayrod than I ever thought possible.
Posted by: Kelly Garrett at July 4, 2008 11:46 PM