My Birthday Crotch Shot

OK, Lost in the Flood part two—the simmering nervous breakdowns.

We have a pile of junk out on our front porch that looks like a cardboard murder scene. It will be there until Friday, serving as a constant reminder of the gouging of our worldly possessions due to a flooded basement.  My baseball cards are sitting in piles in front of two fans in the livingroom, curling until their tops and bottoms meet. I think eventually I’ll have to iron them straight. My books of my best cards were safely upstairs, so there are probably about 2-300 “good” cards to be gleaned from this mess. But there were two or three loose cards that were in individual plastic covers that are still unaccounted for. Those three were probably worth about $200 themselves. Suckage.

Of more value is our collective sanity, which seems to have taken a major hit. Our two boys have not been what you would call helpful. They’ve both been sick in the past three days, so they’re tired, ornery and ready to jump into the ring with each other. My stepson took off at the first sign of having to help. His girlfriend is actually coming up tonight to watch the boys WITHOUT HIM because we had plans and she was the only one to volunteer. My birthday is next week, so Mary El planned an outing in New York City that I don’t know anything about. We feel about as ready to celebrate as an ICU ward. Every muscle in my body is hurting from trying to dig out the car the other day, and Mary El’s sleep has been interrupted for the past two nights from Conor moaning…and moaning…and moaning because of his sore throat. Conor is a world-class moaner. If it ever becomes an Olympic sport, we have a a moaning Michael Phelps on our hands.

This morning we had to take him to the doctor to have the throat looked at because his school nurse said it was red. Mary El wanted to get a few things done before James’ girlfriend came, so it was my duty to take him. I just saw the guy yesterday myself. The entire family has a fantastic relationship with our doctor because we see him twice a week. He’s funny and he likes the kids and we spend more time with him than our extended families. We’re thinking of having the kids call him Uncle Ernest. Anyway, Conor was manufacturing some drama about Jackass 3D, which came out Tuesday. Conor adores the Jackass movies, show, DVDs, T-shirts whatever. He knows all of the cast and crew by first name. Guys who run into walls and jump in front of bulls and play with feces is right up Con’s alley. So he wouldn’t get his sneakers on to go to the doctor because he was promised this movie and hasn’t gotten it yet—which he was before our basement exploded and the whole house got sick at once. Mary El had had it and removed herself to another room. Conor was still moaning and still wouldn’t put on his sneakers, until I finally grabbed the sneakers and threw them down in front of him. Now Conor complained that I was yelling at him.

I threw myself on the couch with my jacket and boots on and prayed for patience. Mary El followed Conor back into the kitchen and saw me looking miserable. She was angry at Conor and upset at the situation and altogether frustrated past all reasonable expectation. She says, “You look like you have had it. I’ll take him!” With that she kicked off one of her fuzzy pink slippers in anger. It flew in the air as if in slow motion. I watched it without moving a muscle, so numb to the world I was at that moment. It began its slow descent. And I realized it would probably hit me. Still I watched, enthralled at the sight, yet apathetic to its outcome.

It hit me right in the balls. If she had wound up and kicked me it wouldn’t have hurt as much. I immediately grabbed me junk and turned my face into the couch, laughing my ass off while the nerve pain traveled up through my stomach. Conor was laughing so hard he could hardly speak. He kept asking questions to repeat the hysterical scenario in his mind. “Did you know it was going to hit you? Why didn’t you move? Couldn’t you see where it was going? Did it really hurt?”

Yes. Yes it did. But at least Mary El was laughing. Happy birthday to me!

    • Brian’s Dad
    • March 15th, 2011

    Brian, It’s your own fault. As your Dad, I distinctly recall having warned you of the danger of flying fuzzy slippers. The incident does however explain the high-pitched voice on the last phone message you left. Next time cover up. Shocking only because that particular reflex doesn’t usually go so soon. Life’s a hoot. Sometimes a holler. I told you so. Should you survive to your birthday on Sunday, best wishes and love to all there. Dad

    • Joel Flowers
    • March 15th, 2011

    I love reading these. They show me that my life’s not so bad, after all!

    • Joe Gayton
    • March 15th, 2011

    God, I love you guys!

    • John
    • March 15th, 2011

    You have a life worth writing about. I wouldn’t want to live it, but it makes a great read.

    • bcpkid
    • March 16th, 2011

    @Dad Ohhh, cover up! Unfortunately the barn door closed already–on my privates. By the way, we had a flood in the basement. Hope you and Samn are well.

    @Joel I guess the dogs don’t like Jackass.

    @Joe Right back atcha!

    @John Sometimes I wish I could just make it up, but the truth is always funnier that what I can imagine. Hurts more though.

    • Kae
    • March 16th, 2011

    I know it was a BAD day, but what a hilariously image of that flying, fuzzy slipper. Who knew a fuzzy slipper could be so perilous?

  1. It was funny to me for a short time too. A very short time.

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