Tuesday, August 6, 2013

Jon Received A Jar Of Homemade Pickles For His Birthday, But Apparently He Needed More

So, I had this conversation while sitting in a park at the foot of a mountain this weekend:

Geraldine: (calling out as people start rolling in on their bikes) Hey! How was the mountain bike ride, guys?
Bertram: (while running off to push kids on swings, because, obviously, mountain bike riding isn't tiring enough) Good.
Clive: It was awesome!
Harold: Yeah. But, Jon is going to need some stitches.
Mabel: What?
Harold: Yeah. He took a fall. He didn't want us to tell you.
Geraldine: Are you being serious?
Me: (sitting patiently, because, seriously, I can't tell, I mean I played poker with Harold last night and lost every single one of my pretty pretty chips (arranged into flowers on the table in front of me) because his poker face is just that good, I mean, it obviously isn't my lack of poker chip arranging skills)
Clive: He took a pretty big fall. His knee is all messed up.
Me: Where is Jon?
Harold: He's back at the cars, washing up his knee.
Me: (picking up my purse, abandoning my children into the responsibility of four adults I trust enough to give fake old people names) Well crapazoidal.
Belinda: Where are you going?
Me: To the car. If I'm not there, Jon's just going to drive himself to the emergency room.

One bucket of iodine water later, a stop at the park to show off Jon's knee to the kids (including the ones we didn't know, like a circus side show) and a play by play of the accident while in the car later, we were settled into a room at the local urgent care where I had this conversation with Jon while waiting for the doctor:

Me: How you feeling?
Jon: Fine. It hurts, but, I'm OK.  My phone is dead though.
Me: Here, I'll put it in my purse.
Jon: (hands it over, we sit in silence for 30 seconds) I'm bored.
Me: So, it's not the fact that you have a gash that goes down to the knee cap that's bothering you right now, it's because you have nothing to do?
Jon: (wincing, from boredom, not pain) They could at least have their conversations in front of me.  I'm interested too.  Do you have anything to read?
Me: (searching through my mom purse) No, no books, I left them in the car. Let's see, I have a fuzzy worm on a string, a package of wiki sticks,  crayons, a coffee sleeve aaaannnnd! (pausing for greater dramatic effect as I pull my last option out with a flourish, and, obviously, jazz hands) PURSE BEAR!
Jon: (emphatically) No.
Me: But Purse Bear is cute!
Jon: (emphaticeding) No.
Me: She has a bow on her head!
Jon: (emphaticaliciously) No.
Me: You can make her dance! See! (Purse Bear cuts a jig) Look! She's entertaining!
Jon: I think I'm good. Thanks though. (Re-reads the sign on proper sneeze and coughing etiquette, then sighs. From boredom. Again.)

Five stitches and one tetanus shot later we went out and bought Jon a cane. Because nothing says, "Happy 37th Birthday!" like your very own old man accessory.


  1. I can't decide whether to laugh like a lunatic or frown with concern and THEN laugh like a lunatic.

    1. Jon didn't die. I say laugh like a lunatic all you want. Until the gangrene sets in at least.