When we last left our writer, she was being chided by those bad lampworkers who were hassling her about telling Bob about her fall of the previous day, even though we had a previous engagement that was important to Bob. (I had been wrong about the occasion - it was his annual bowling dinner, not his annual meat selling dinner)
While I was writing, somene I know was ratting. Manda ran into her father at the street festival and told him that Mama had hurt herself the day before and was in mega-pain. (I don't know why that kid wants a PhD., since she has a career as a Narc down pat already) Bob had already packed the wheelchair, and insisted I take my bag o' drugs with me.
We go to the restaurant, which was one of the strangest places I've ever seen - a huge building, divided roughly in thirds. One third was a nightclub/pick-up joint; one third was a huge arcade filled with kids (with two bars in the middle - what's up with that?); and a large function room called the "Hall of Fame." I look at all the photos on the wall, and immediately re-christen the room to be the "Hall of Men." (It was sports themed, but had not one woman represented in the whole hall)
Bob helps me to our table, and we wait for the rest of his team. Over the following twenty minutes, Bob gets calls from two of the five team members: One is a husband and wife pair, and the husband is quite ill with hepatitis, they won't be able to come. The second call is from a single woman team member, she was "not in the mood" to go. So, our table for eight was now down to four people.
Fine, we have a good time yakking, and looking on with amusement as elderly people steal our excess chairs. I see something odd - one elderly chair thief immediately insisted that a waitress clean and disinfect the chair. Since I had just got up from that same chair, I can only assume that it was my cooties she was trying to have removed. Then I made a complete ass of myself (I know some of you are saying, "yeah, so what else is new?") My had was shaking so much I knocked over a full glass of water down the front of my dress. Brrrr. Fortunately, I had worn a dress where the water didn't show at all, so except for the free air conditioning, I was perfectly fine. But that episode simply firmed Bob's resolve that I was going to have to be waited upon. feh.
Bob fetched my food from the buffet, got the bar to give my drinks in a paper cup with a cover and straw, and blocked off the access to our table, so people walking by couldn't bump me. His friends were either clued in or totally oblivious, because they made no comment whatsoever.
The bowling banquet was as fun as it always is, with the sponsors making everyone laugh with gag gifts and the like. For the first time in fifteen or so years, Bob didn't get one gag gift, which was okay, because the gag gifts are always terrible. He did get a nice envelope full of cash, which is always welcome.
We left as early as was possible, because Bob said I was showing pain and exhaustion on my face. We had to go through the arcade (still full of kids after 10 at night), the nightclub, and went out to the truck.
Bob opened my door of the truck and I gasped. The seat of the truck seemed like it was over my head, because I was so hurt that there was no way I could climb in. I grabbed the roof rails on the truck and tried to get myself in with arm strength. Uh, no. I manage half a chin up, and Bob gives my butt a push to get me into the car.
It gets worse. As I'm trying to manoeuver into the seat, my legs get horrendous cramps. I have to slide out of the truck and put weight on my legs to get them to release. Bob holds me up, and when the cramps finally let go, he picks me up and puts me in the seat. Fortunately, the rest of the ride home is uneventful.
I lurched from the driveway to the back door, and had to get a bit of assistance to get up the stairs. Bob immediately went to bed and konked out, and I watched the Red Sox beat on the Seatle Mariners. (As a lifelong Bostonian, I am required to be a Red Sox fan and to hate the New York Yankees with the heat of a thousand burning nuns. I think it's something in the water here. The only person more hated than a Yankee is the evil and despicable Bill Buckner, who let the ball roll through his legs during the 1986 World Series, causing the Red Sox to lose to the hated Yankees)
So Bob knew and knows, and has already told me that I am not going anywhere before my doctor's appointment on Monday. this is the doctor that called me "addicted to painkillers," which upset Bob to no end. Well, I must have an odd kind of addiction. I ran out of pain meds, the pain resumed and that was it. I had no cravings, nor did I try to get drugs from other sources. (I'd have liked pain relief, but that's not part of the addiction profile) I think Mr. Bob is looking forward to the appointment.
So there we are. I'm going to be up for a while, because of a lot of pain. Hopefully, my sleep meds will knock me out before it gets too awful.
So thanks you guys, for inciting Manda to rat me out. I'll get her in the morning. :-)
Kathy N-V