Like Being Poked In The Eye With A Sharp Stick
I’m finally home after my book tour and as usual I arrived to find the house in an uproar…and I don’t mean because Henrietta would not shut up for the forty-eight hours straight it took her to tell me every little detail of what happened while I was gone.
I mean because He Who Shall Not Be Named In This Blog always likes to surprise me with a little home improvement project he embarks upon in secret while I’m away, which he usually finishes—and even manages to clean up after–before I get home (and by “embark upon” I mean he pays other people to do it).
Which is why I don’t understand how this time he managed almost to poke his own eye out with a stick while “helping” to complete his most recent project.
Fortunately he only poked the white part which according to the optometrist is “just like skin”–only, as we both wondered, in that case why doesn’t it tan or grow hair?–and should be good as new in a few days.
But I now have to put antibacterial ointment in his eye every few hours (and no, that doesn’t cause a lot of “Stop it, you’re putting it in my eyeLASHES,” and “Don’t scrape the tube ON my eye” at all).
Sadly, his eye is not wounded enough to require the wearing of a patch, although this would, in fact, have made my homecoming and holiday weekend (considering the opening of “Pirates 3”) sublime.
Between that and the complete breaking down of our Airport base station (and, for one terrifying moment, the TiVo, although I fixed that by re-booting, thank GOD), leaving us without the ability to the connect to the Internet from any room but the very uncomfortable office which is the one room in our house we still haven’t furnished yet after two years (because what kind of person who works from home actually uses their home office?), you can see why we had to postpone the Pants on Fire online chat until next Saturday.
Although it’s probably just as well the chat got postponed because I’m sure all of you were out enjoying the lovely weather this weekend…not to mention catching up on the BBC America ROBIN HOOD season finale, since now I know how many of you watch that show—and it’s a LOT of you (not just in the US, but the UK as well).
And yes I KNOW Richard Armitage, aka Sir Guy, also starred in “North and South.” I actually have the DVD, given to me by my friend Beth (yes, the one with whom I have such long and highly intelligent conversations about TV), and I will be watching it just as soon as I can give up eye maintenance duty.
Although I don’t know if it will be as good because part of what makes ROBIN HOOD so excellent is Sir Guy’s tortured love for Maid Marian, whom he believes can redeem his evil ways. This however is never a good basis for a real life relationship, as I know only too well because one of my high school boyfriends believed this about me.
And while it was fun being adored to that extent for a while, I soon discovered that dating a guy who had a dark side was no fun at all. Not that he was secretly killing serfs or anything. But he would take me to see The Last Starfighter (so excellent) or whatever, then drop me off at home with a chaste kiss on the cheek, only to go out partying with his friends. So when I’d get on the bus in the morning there’d be some girl passing around Polaroids of MY boyfriend high on ecstasy doing naked handstands at some party—some party he hadn’t taken ME to because I’m not the kind of girl you take to parties like that (much like Maid Marian).
(Only actually the problem was I wouldn’t go to parties like that. The conversation would have gone like this:
Him: “Do you want to go to a party at ________’s house?”
Me: “Ew. That drugged up skank? How can you even consider going to her party?”
Him: “Never mind.”)
I tried to redeem him. I really did (even making my mom tell his mom what was going on). But as we know from Miss L. Lohan’s weekend adventures, you can’t make someone stop killing serfs (or doing drugs). They have to want to stop killing serfs or doing drugs on their own.
So I finally had to sic my dad after him when he showed up screaming my name outside my house, totally wasted, at four in the morning. And that was The End of my Sir Guy (or at least his interest in me).
I really hope there’ll be a second season of ROBIN HOOD. Has anyone heard if there will be?
When I get too depressed about talented young people who squander their promising futures on drugs, or whales stuck in the river near San Francisco, or the number of dead in Iraq or whatever, I just click here, and it cheers me up. At least for a little while. Since this is what my dad threatened to do to my Sir Guy if he ever contacted me again.
OK, I have to go put more ointment in my husband’s eye now. Ciao–or, as my friend from Indiana who didn’t know how ciao was pronounced (because she’d only seen it written) used to say, Keeyow.