Joe and his Smoking Jacket

Mr. Funny decided to cook up some jumbalaya for dinner that Merry sent us as a surprise yesterday. It was the beginning of the end.

Sheesh, that was exciting--to get a package chock full of Louisiana goodies on your front porch. Joe was beside himself. Well, we all were beside ourselves. Col and Em grabbed the spicy chips, Joe ran for the red beans and the "Slap ya mama" cajun seasoning. I was all over the pralines and the beignet mix. Hobbes was into the box, and out again. Then in again. Grace just walked away, disgusted at our gushing.

Joe was downright busting to make some of the stuff, so he fired up the Jumbalaya and grabbed some chicken and sausage to throw in. A piece of chicken fell on the floor and he, being Mr. Funny, yells "that's your piece" and reaches to grab it.

That's when God punished him. Yep. God defended my honor and gave Joe a big 'ol wretch in his back when he bent over. He yelped and screamed and fell to the floor. I thought he was kidding and did what I do best--I laughed at him. But he wasn't kidding. Nope. He pulled something good in his back and now he can hardly straighten up. He's looking like a Number 7 permanently, which really isn't such a good look. And he says it hurts.

So, I'm giving him some sympathy until I realize that I have to finish making dinner, tend to his heating pad, go pick Colin up, clean up dinner, take out the garbage to the curb because it it Garbage Night, finish the 3 loads of laundry that I have, and make lunches for tomorrow. Whew. I'm exhausted from just typing it--you should have seen me doing all that! Add in that I had to drive Col's girlfriend home too, stop for gas, hear that the one-year old microwave just died and now I had to take that out the curb (literally, not figuratively for you hip-hoppers out there), and run to Target to buy a new one.

Yeah, great timing there, Joe. Could he have not hurt his back when so much is happening?! Is that too much to ask?

So there he sits on the couch while I'm running around like a fool. He's all propped up with pillows, heating pad on his lower back, looking like he's Hugh Hefner at the Mansion with his smoking jacket on, waiting for the babes to wait on him. I wanted to freakin' kill him. I still do, except he looks like he just wants to die.

The problem isn't that he's hurt, it is the refusal to actually just sit and do nothing until it gets better. He insists on trying to fix the microwave--yeah, good luck with that. He keeps bending over to plug and unplug the darned thing, like it is going to make it magically better. He's hauling the giant extension cord in from the garage and ends up having to crawl on his hands and knees back into the house when his back cramps up again. It is his refusing to SIT and not make this worse. So, I'm having to yell at him to stop whatever he's doing, like he's 3 years old.

I have finally succeeded in forcing him to sit, so sit he does--in that we're-coming-in-for-a-landing-so-please-sit-in-an-upright-position pose.

I'm thinking homeboy isn't going too far from the couch tomorrow, although he doesn't agree. Why do I think I'm gonna have to stay home with him to babysit? Sigh. He's worse than the kids. Kill me now.