Recently Wifey told me that before I say or do anything that I should check with her first.
Seems I don't have a good internal edit function.
Keep that in mind.
And now the story begins.
Last night around 2:30am I hear this CRASH! SMASH! BOTTLES A BREAKIN'! coming from across the street. I then hear tires squealing and a car pulling away.
I look out the window and see trash all strewn about on my neighbors driveway.
My 2:30 in the morning brain told me it was a college prank done to the neighbors college aged son.
Should I go out at 2:30am and clean up the mess? There was quite a bit of trash (the after Christmas trash is always a lot)
Should I call the neighbor and let him know?
I decided not to do either. Cleaning up the trash at 2:30am would probably wake up lots of people. I went back to bed. Back to sleep.
I get up around 7:30. Go downstairs.
I ask Wifey if she saw the mess across the street. She did.
I tell her about the noise of the car speeding away.
It's 7:30 in the morning and now I feel guilty about not cleaning up the trash.
I tell Wifey to text the neighbors. She does.
She also offers her help in cleaning up the mess.
I then tell Wifey that I'm going to go over and clean it up.
She tells me not to. People don't want other people looking through their trash.
I then see Dave the Neighbor in his driveway starting to clean up.
Did I mention that I usually goof on Dave the Neighbor? Did I mention the practical jokes we've done on each other?
It's killing me. His driveway is filled with trash and I have to stay inside.
The jokes flying thru my brain are hurting me.
I have to go out. Not to help.
I say to Wifey "I'm going to help!"
She again says no.
I run upstairs and put on my pants.
I'm going over. Not to help.
I open my front door and yell across the street "YOU SLOB! CLEAN UP THAT MESS!!"
Dave the Neighbor can't really hear what I'm saying.
I put on some slippers, I decide I'm gonna fly down the three steps at my front door, down my brick walkway, and across the lawn to goof on him!
I take the three steps with ease.
I hit the brick walkway.
The ice-covered brick walkway.
Aptly named slippers get no traction. I fly in the air. I crash down like Dave the Neighbors trash.
My head smashes on a decorative metal milk urn we keep at bottom of front stairs (Is the milk urn really all that decorative?), my elbow gets smashed on the brick.
I lay there.
Dave the Neighbor comes running over. Genuine concern.
I'm going to spend the rest of my life in a coma. Maybe a wheelchair.
Or maybe I just have a small cut on my elbow.
I get up. My head hurts. My elbow kills.
Blood on my t-shirt showing my manliness.
Wifey comes out.
Dave the Neighbor thinks it was his newspaper delivery guy that crashed into his trash.
Dave the Neighbor goes back to his filthy driveway.
Wifey isn't yet aware that she has an "I told you so" hanging over my head.
My elbow still kills. It will probably prevent me from pitching for the Red Sox this year.
We go in the house.
Wifey has genuine concern for the whack I took on my head.
"Ralph Fiennes wife died a day or two after hitting her head. You should get that checked."
I'm a man. I don't need my head examined.
(I gave you all that line, do what you must with it)