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Turn your head and

February 6, 2007

When Sexywife was in the fourth grade she was in a bike accident. The girl down the street caused her to crash (the bitch!) and then ran over her with roller skates.
The future Sexpot lay on the ground screaming, crying, sobbing.
Her dad came out to comfort her. “You’re OK,” and helped her inside where he allowed her the luxury of sitting down — this was the 70s, kids were supposed to be outside crashing bikes, shooting each other in the eye with BB guns, re-enacting Charlie’s Angels or learning how to grow pot.
Still, she cried. “Honey, it doesn’t hurt that bad. Come on, walk around on it a little bit.”

More than 24 hours later her mom came home from an overnight trip. She found her daughter in agony, took one look at the leg and rushed the family out the door to the hospital.

Of course the leg was broken. The kid down the street was a heifer! If the rollerskate at 30 mph didn’t crack the tibia then it surely busted with old Dad’s rub-some-dirt-on-it care and kindness.
Granted, Sexywife’s dad is a good-hearted guy. He just screwed up. He feels bad about it now, 30 years later, and it’s a fun topic to bring up at family reunions.

So you’d think that experience taught Sexywife a lesson.
If someone — say, a husband for instance — says he’s in pain — even if it’s from a lingering, debilitating, seasonal viral infection, like a cold — then for crying out loud, give the man the benefit of the doubt once in a while.

Maybe you see where I’m going with this.

Somewhere in her subsequent growing-up years Sexywife decided to become a nurse. Maybe she wanted to help little kids with busted-up legs who had been neglected by their fathers. I’m sure her intentions were pure. But it’s a little-known fact that nursing school takes good-hearted young women — or men — and turns them into cold-blooded, cold-hearted creatures void of empathy, weilding needles and threading humungous-looking plastic tubes up where no thing should ever go.

Oh, sure, if you’re dieing they’ll save your life. They have to, it’s part of the Florence Nightengale creed. Let me tell you something, anything short of a ruptured aorta or end-stage bone, liver and brain cancer and they don’t have time to feel sorry for you.

I get out of bed this morning, a Monday. “I’m not going to work today.”

“Why?” she says, deadpan.

Sexywife is the kindest, sweetest, most giving person on the planet. Hordes of friends would echo that praise. But the woman has that nurse mentality when it comes to illness. The bar is pretty fucking high.

Hello???? I’ve been sick for days — DAYS! Hasn’t she heard me coughing, sneezing, blowing, moaning, aching?

Probably.

“Why aren’t you going to work?”

“Because I don’t feel well. I’m sick, for crying out loud.”

She gives me that look. This woman, for whom the Sexywife moniker is often an understatement as far as I’m concerned, inherited this work ethic thing from her old man, the same old man who nearly crippled his little girl for life! This man is 85 years old, he’s been retired 20 years and he still wakes up every morning and heads to work. I’m not talking a part-time gig handing out golf cart keys in the pro shop. He’s a farmer. He spends scores of hours every week in fields of corn, soy beans, hogs. Wind up ol’ Tom, push him out the door and he won’t stop until he comes home for dinner.

Sexywife is the same damn way! I get no rest with this woman! I mean, she works circles around me. I don’t even try to keep up. But my ego? It gets bruised! She bruises me ego because she won’t stop working. So when I say I’m taking a sick day I might as well say I’m laid up in bed with syphillis from that trip to Tijuana last month.

How’m I supposed to teach Myowndaughter the finer points of faking a stomach flu to play the back nine the first time it opens for the season? How in the world is she supposed to understand being a slacker? How can she appreciate the first days of spring, the last days of winter, the middle of summer, the beginning, middle and end days of autumn if she’s expected to work all the time?

My little girl needs a role model, for crying out loud! And dammit, I’m here to be the one she looks up to.

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