A Weekend at Pukle's: The Woes of Irony

Tom had the extra bone in his giant man foot removed last week. Now he's in the "toes-above-nose" phase of the recovery timeline. He spends his days either on the couch lobbing grenades onto his tiny menacing iShoot enemies, or careening around on his sweet little knee-scooter. I set up a playdate for him.

In a fantastic coincidence of both timing and anatomical involvement, two weeks ago my Dad smashed up his ankle pulling an over-cocky down a double black diamond trail. He got what looks like a rack and pinion steering system installed in his new bionic foot. He is also in the Lie-About and Infrequent Bathing portion of the recuperation regimen.

On Saturday, exactly according to plan, Tom and the D-mon hunkered down for a weekend movie marathon. Meanwhile, I was sort of counting on my wonderful mother of extremely tasty cooking to just double up the portions of her meals on wheels. I mean, the extra workload for one more patient is incremental at most. Plus I was hoping to, you know, leave.

It was an ingenious scheme all the way around.

That is, until my cute Momster came down with a catastrophic viral infestation and spent all night and all day puking into a wastepaper basket in the spare bedroom. Thus increasing my patient load from a mild-mannered one to a really demanding three. Now I know why the nurses wear those hideously comfortable shoes.

All day it was ice for nibbling upstairs and ice for sutures downstairs. Trips to the store for ginger-ale and saltines and Febreeze to spray on the two never-nudes' stank feet. I constructed a really efficient methodology for dumping vomit.

Everybody owes me one. That's the good news.