What a gay, romantic week it’s been here at the old chez peenee. Two of our oldest friends, Cow Queen and K, popped into town to get married and stayed here with me. It was their thirty-something anniversary, and after a very tastefully small ceremony at City Hall, we had a lovely lunch at one of my favorite Italian restaurants downtown.
And then, a slightly less romantic trip to the emergency room for Cow Queen. After we got home from all the wedding festivities (no bouquet toss since the majority of the party was composed of widow ladies) Cow admitted as to how his leg was aching and reminded me that he had been in the hospital a few years ago with MRSA, the drug resistant staph infection, and that his doctor he’d been at pains to warn him how easy it was for it to come back. He also revealed a big hole in his shin that he had won falling down a ladder at work last week.
He was reluctant to go to the emergency room, but a lifetime with R Man had taught me how to overcome such moronic protests. Why is it when the words “infection” or “blood loss” or “chest pains” hang heavy in the air, I am the one who thinks how attractive the local hospitals are? The idea that I am the responsible one in the room should make everyone a little less comfortable.
So I stuffed his protesting ass in the car and wheeled off to my favorite E.R. A lifetime with R Man has also equipped me with a connoisseur’s knowledge of them.
It wasn’t bad, less than three hours, mostly spent discussing the wedding and the lunch and then we were back home. So it wasn’t the ideal honeymoon. At least he scored a bunch of oxycontin and that has to count for something.