Yes this is a gratuitous toddler picture placed here for no other reason than I kinda like her. I just might keep her.
My husband has a problem. This problem manifested itself when we lived in our old (but nicer) house in Mississauga. Alan has a problem with stairs and will be the first to admit it. Apparently the size of risers that has been universally agreed upon by all builders in North America are not big enough for him. He argues they are not wide enough for his feet.
Early one Saturday morning about four years ago he went upstairs to change a light fixture. Yes, a strange thing to do at seven am but Alan is all about seizing the moment. He was coming downstairs when I heard a “THUD, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM and SMASH”. I ran into the hallway and saw the broken light fixture and Alan rolling about on the floor calling, “ My ass! My ass! I’ve broken my ass! “ I was all, “its okay, its okay you’ll be alright.” I sat there thinking what exactly is the protocol when one believes they have broken their ass. Should I offer to rub it? Should we get an ass x-ray? I thought he might be faking it a bit until I saw the stairs. The green colour of his pajama bottoms had actually transferred onto the carpet of the stairs. Poor bastard had the worst bruise I had ever seen – and it hurt for a long time due to its unfortunate location. The good news was that there was no ass breakage.
In our new house Alan had fallen once and then fell again this morning. As per our usual morning routine I would head into the shower first and Alan would take Sophie down to the family room to sit in her princess chair and have her sippy cup of milk. All of a sudden I heard, “THUD, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM – AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” I ran to the family room where Sophie was just fine but Alan was rolling around, “My arm! My arm! Oh God!” He said Sophie was fine because she sort of rode down the stairs on his chest but he had sacrificed his body to keep her out of harms way. He asked me to look at his arm. He had about a ½ inch wide bloody rug burn going from his elbow all the way to his wrist. He saw my face and said, “What? What? What does it look like?” I told him it looked super bad – because, well, it did! I asked him if he thought it was broken and he yelled, “ How the hell would I know? I’m not a Doctor, I’m a Marketing Manager!” Needless to say we started laughing.
“I hate stairs!”, he said. “I need flatness. Super, super flatness. A bungalow with no where to fall.” "If I were eighty I would be dead right now because of my falls!” He dreaded going into the shower and getting water on the rug burn. “Ignore the screams of pain” he said. My poor stair-challenged Alan. As he walked I away I said, "I am so going to blog about this." He just sighed and said, "I figured".
My husband has a problem. This problem manifested itself when we lived in our old (but nicer) house in Mississauga. Alan has a problem with stairs and will be the first to admit it. Apparently the size of risers that has been universally agreed upon by all builders in North America are not big enough for him. He argues they are not wide enough for his feet.
Early one Saturday morning about four years ago he went upstairs to change a light fixture. Yes, a strange thing to do at seven am but Alan is all about seizing the moment. He was coming downstairs when I heard a “THUD, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM and SMASH”. I ran into the hallway and saw the broken light fixture and Alan rolling about on the floor calling, “ My ass! My ass! I’ve broken my ass! “ I was all, “its okay, its okay you’ll be alright.” I sat there thinking what exactly is the protocol when one believes they have broken their ass. Should I offer to rub it? Should we get an ass x-ray? I thought he might be faking it a bit until I saw the stairs. The green colour of his pajama bottoms had actually transferred onto the carpet of the stairs. Poor bastard had the worst bruise I had ever seen – and it hurt for a long time due to its unfortunate location. The good news was that there was no ass breakage.
In our new house Alan had fallen once and then fell again this morning. As per our usual morning routine I would head into the shower first and Alan would take Sophie down to the family room to sit in her princess chair and have her sippy cup of milk. All of a sudden I heard, “THUD, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM – AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” I ran to the family room where Sophie was just fine but Alan was rolling around, “My arm! My arm! Oh God!” He said Sophie was fine because she sort of rode down the stairs on his chest but he had sacrificed his body to keep her out of harms way. He asked me to look at his arm. He had about a ½ inch wide bloody rug burn going from his elbow all the way to his wrist. He saw my face and said, “What? What? What does it look like?” I told him it looked super bad – because, well, it did! I asked him if he thought it was broken and he yelled, “ How the hell would I know? I’m not a Doctor, I’m a Marketing Manager!” Needless to say we started laughing.
“I hate stairs!”, he said. “I need flatness. Super, super flatness. A bungalow with no where to fall.” "If I were eighty I would be dead right now because of my falls!” He dreaded going into the shower and getting water on the rug burn. “Ignore the screams of pain” he said. My poor stair-challenged Alan. As he walked I away I said, "I am so going to blog about this." He just sighed and said, "I figured".
2 comments:
Is it wrong to call him a stair retard? Too late!!
Seems to me we almost bought a bungalow... didn't we?
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