The storm has passed and the bayou is attempting to return to normal. Hubby was out and about and checking on our rental houses and as luck would have it, part of husband duty was trying to find milk for wife. After passing many still closed markets, he happened upon Wal-Mart, which, just his luck, was out of milk. Hubby didn’t panic, even though he knew I would no doubt go through milk withdrawal at any moment. Being the person he is, he lost no time spinning around and heading for the soda department where he found a six-pack of IBC Root beer in the bottle. He knew without a doubt, what would make his wife happy. Now, THAT is what love is!
Ryka got excited and jumped on me.
Hubby did a pretty good job.
It was looking better until it opened back up. Now
the lines don’t match. Oh well.
It is not only the actual hurricane that causes distress in our lives; it is the personal aftermath. It is the moments in the week following the storm as you are trying to re-establish your routines. Case in point; today. Hubby was helping to fold up Ryka’s metal petcrate, which is quite heavy. I normally do this by myself, but I’ve been having problems with the arthritis in my hands so I asked for help. BIG MISTAKE!
He kept telling me I was doing it wrong and I kept telling him I wasn’t. The crate ends fall in and then the bottom, sides, and top sort of fold down into place -kind of have to be there – like an accordion. As men will do, he told me to do it myself. He let go as I began folding and as the pieces fell into place, my pinky became caught in between two pieces of the cage. The crate was too heavy for me to lift back up with one hand and my pinky was either going to stay stuck or … -it could only stay stuck.
So, I screamed. Yes folks, I resorted to screaming – in pain – until he figured out that he had to lift the crate to release my finger. I can’t blame him for his confusion. After all, he is not an –sighing – INTJ. I enjoy using that excuse – except for when he laughs and throws it back at me.
I now have a black and blue pinky and it is quite sore. It is still crooked from when I fractured it and misplaced – dislocated – it during a fall. Still whopped; just a pretty shade of blue whopped now.
Alas, but that was not the only mishap. My feet look like they have chicken pox from the many ant bites. Instead of piles in the yard, they have scattered everywhere and they are looking to hurt. I am not trying to sound paranoid, but they seem to want to hurt me. Hubby said I needed to wear my white shrimp boots -yes, I am mortified to admit I have my own pair- but then, it would just take longer to notice the ants had crawled up the boots.
Ants are not the only little nuisances I have had the bad luck to find myself up against. Going back to trying to re-establish a routine, I went out the back door to ring the bell to alert the dogs for dinner and dang, if a wasp didn’t reach out of the bell and sting me on the same hand I hurt this morning dismantling the kennel! That bell has been hanging at our house for ten years and NEVER once has anything built a nest in it.
And, I’m not through! As if that weren’t bad enough, Hubby wasn’t around to come to my rescue, so I had to call him on the phone so he could tell me what to do – did I mention I’m not too handy in a crisis? After lots of cold water and then cold Benadryl gel, the sting finally subsided. Now, it is just a hole in my hand. And, for the record, whoever said – and Hubby repeated – that bee stings alleviate arthritis pain in the joints – doesn’t work. Take my word on this.
I wasn’t the only one to suffer from this mishap. Calypso ended up caught in the bee fray. I couldn’t find the wasp spray so I figured the flying insect spray would work. After all, wasps fly. I took aim and sprayed into the bell. Nothing happened. I had checked and there was a wasp in there, so I sprayed a second time. It finally fell, disoriented from its perch.
BUT, it didn’t fall to the ground in death, it continued flapping around, so I went inside to locate a shoe. I came back out just as it took flight and landed on Calypso’s back. I am horribly chastened to admit that I popped Calypso on the back with the shoe. Poor thing did not know what was going on. She will probably need doggie therapy from the entire trauma. The little buzzard got away and I think Calypso finally realized I was not trying to hurt her. Who can tell? She is still watching me with a funny look on her face.
Speaking of therapy, Ryka and Calypso could probably use a good doggie therapist by now. Well, knowing that under normal circumstances, their “Papa” expects them to realize that they are dogs and therefore should remain outside; they were a little confused when the kennels came out of the shed and were put into the garage.
With tails wagging and hearts full of hope, they got excited. They were running in and out of the garage, at a loss as to what to do. As soon as the rains came, they were all too happy to come inside and ran straight for their kennels. Each time I opened the kennel doors and asked if they wanted to potty, they ran to the back door. Once I opened the door and they stepped out, they immediately turned around and went back to their kennels. Knowing that “Papa” does not let them inside, they were not taking any chances on being left outside. Those poor dogs didn’t potty for almost twenty hours!
Then, to confuse the poor little souls even more, their “Papa” would sit out in the garage each morning and drink his coffee. He would sit in the rocker right next to them. Before Ryka and Calypso could truly understand what was going on, the hurricane passed and they were once again, banished outside.
We ended up being without power for about five days, had uprooted trees, with another poor tree sheared and no longer looked like a tree, and shingle damage. No one is any worse for wear, but I hope that we do not have to go through that again for a few years.
Just when you think the story is over, “Lucy” has another hurricane adventure! I had blood work done on Friday -looks like a vampire bit me. I had to show the tech where they normally stick me. She stuck me on the side of my arm. I do not like needles and that made no freaking sense to me at all. I had it done at the local hospital and then sent into New Orleans. I told Hubby, next time, New Orleans. They get loads of practice and know what they’re doing.
I received the results a couple of days ago and my platelet count and red cell count are both continuing to rise. This brings me to Hubby’s reaction to the news.
We were having lunch and I told Hubby about the blood results. After much contemplation, his response -and I’m still baffled- was that people -me?- need to exercise more and work out in the yard and do more things and then they wouldn’t have all these diseases. I’m still trying to figure that one out.
But, I went out and “exercised and worked in the yard with him clearing branches” and that worked out real well. I sliced the knuckle on my thumb wide open. The blood was flowing, just like a faucet – not a dribble – running. It would not stop. Hubby had walked to the barn and was sharpening his saw. I made a detour through the house to get a towel for my finger.
Then, I went to the barn to find him. As I walked up to him with a soaking wet red dishtowel I said, “I did something.”
In calm Hubby fashion -he’s used to bandaging me- he pulled out the first aid kit, dumped hydrogen peroxide on it -now there was a puddle of blood and hp on the concrete- and he proceeded to wrap gauze around and around my thumb and then taped it up. So much for curing my blood disorders. I guess that will have to wait for another day. Now, he did a really fine job bandaging my thumb, but the thing is, I am allergic to anything that contains the least little bit of sticky or latex. Are you getting my drift? That’s right. The finger is all nicely bandaged and itching like crazy.
-Sighing- it’s just another day in the life of “Me”.
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- Hurricane Isaac rears his ugly head (mybookofstories.wordpress.com)