When we left off yesterday, I was lying in a hospital bed drugged up on morphine with a 4 inch incision down my stomach. The good drugs were only for Day 1 so by Day 2, the reality of having been sliced up began to hit. On top of that, I couldn’t hold my son because he had the nerve to decide to be born a month early. You’d think the least he could do is be healthy but no; his lungs weren’t developed enough.
So there I am, lying in that hospital, feeling sorry for myself. Frank arrives and that makes things a bit better. Then, within minutes, the phone rings. It’s my father, calling from my house.
Dad: “You know that button in the kitchen?”
Me: “What button?” We had only moved into the house a month earlier & I was still working at the time so I hadn’t spent a heck of a lot of time actually in the house.
Dad: “The one that says Emergency.”
Me: “What about it?”
Dad: “Well I was wondering what it did so I pressed it.”
Me: “You what?!?! That’s the panic button for the alarm.”
Dad: “I noticed.”
The hospital was 20 minutes from home. Frank made the drive home in 10. Before he even got in the house, he was greeted by a neighbor 2 doors down who told Frank he was about to call the police. I can only imagine the phone call I would have gotten if it took Frank the full 20 minutes to drive home.
Mom: “Your father is in jail. I need Frank to help me bail him out. Let’s just hope there aren’t any buttons to press in the jail cell.”
There used to be a joke about what happened to a male who pushed an unmarked button that he was supposed to leave alone. I would tell you the punchline but, trust me, it is not a visual you want associated with your Dad
Sounds like something my husband would do. He would just have to know how a button can fix an emergency. I bet it took your mind off of the pain for a few minutes.
Kim, I do not even want to know. There are some visuals that will require me to rip my eyes out.
Katy, I’m not sure Frank has an ounce of curiosity so he’d never do that. And oh, yeah, it took my mind off the pain & off Steve. All I could think about was that alarm going off and what if Frank couldn’t figure out how to shut it and would everyone on the block think they just got the new neighbors from hell.
It does seem like a male trait, I must admit.
My downfall? When a waiter says: “Don’t touch the plate — it’s hot.” How can you not touch a hot plate?