Perfectly Cursed Mister

I’d like my weekend back.  If my weekend were a garment, I’d take it back to the store and demand a refund.  It’s that serious.

Friday night, The Mister and I are spending time together for the first time in a week.  And once again we decide to get intimate…which is not a surprise considering we only get two nights a week to see each other.  So there we are, being intimate together and instead of me thinking about toilet paper, the bed breaks.

The bed breaks.

Thank God we’ve been together awhile and this doesn’t turn into an embarrassing story between two newbie lovers.  Because that kind of embarrassment isn’t my thing these days.  No, instead it turns into a practical whodunit and whogonnafixit mystery.

I track down all of the animals to make sure no one was hurt in the small collapse.  Since we had left the bedroom door open, it’s possible any of them could have been near the crash site.  Then we get dressed and start assessing the damage.

Unlike the last time this happened, there’s no fixing this bed.  It’s gotta be replaced.

Now while we’re at this junction in the story, let me bring you up to date on the things that need to be replaced in our household at the current time: (1) the oven; (2) the refrigerator; (3) the front sidewalk (still); (4) my glasses; (5) The Mister’s glasses; and, now (6) our bed.  Sonofabitch can things please stop breaking?!?!?!

We eventually determine that we have a spare shitty bed frame in the garage we can use for the “time being” (which in our house usually means time never ending).  The Mister proceeds to take apart the old Ikea bed frame (*yes, I know it’s an Ikea and I know that they don’t last forever, but it still pisses me off).  We get to the center beam and the prongs attaching it to the sides won’t come out easily.  So The Mister, in his infinite wisdom, starts stomping on the thing to get them out. I walk out of the room so I don’t get a screw in the eye.  I mean, I am the clumsiest person I know, I best get away from any flying objects.  I didn’t want to go to the ER.

That’s when I hear this: “Um….Kim….”

I come back in and The Mister’s finger is gushing blood everywhere and he has a dirty sock covering it up trying to contain the mess. I take a look at the cut and while it’s deep, it’s not big.  And to top it off, it’s in the fold of his finger–a place where stitches can’t go.  See, I know these things from my many trips to the ER.

But he insists that we go anyhow.  So we do.  And thankfully we found the only ER that’s empty on a Friday night.  They tell him the same thing I told him (no stitches, just bandage it up) and they give him some extra gauze and send us on our way.

I ended up having to take the rest of the bed apart myself and carry it outside because someone was incapacitated with a cut finger.  Eventually, though, the job gets done and we lay down on the bed…exhausted.

The entire time we were in the ER I had to giggle to myself though.  For once it was me taking him to the ER and not the other way around.  It wasn’t me gushing blood from my hand–it was him.  It wasn’t me milking sympathy from a cut in the finger–it was him.

All of this had me thinking: maybe I’m not so cursed after all.  Maybe my curse is rubbing off on The Mister.  Maybe I don’t need to duck and cover every time I hear a noise out of the norm.  Maybe I can breathe easy.

Or maybe I just got lucky this time.