First off, to confuse matters, my Favorite Older Sister pointed me to this recent loldog, which appeared a few days AFTER my birthday, but close enough for government work.
But this isn't about my BIRFDAY, but instead my BURNDAY, aka the Second Anniversary of Mojo's Carnival of Smiles. Interestingly enough last weekend we had an old friend up who we haven't seen in a few years--a friend of my Favorite Husband's, since, let's face it, Mojo doesn't really HAVE friends, now, does she?--and after they had finished talking about themselves the menfolk eventually got around to FINALLY talking about Mojo, or at least her burn as described by said Favorite Husband. Me, since I was in the back of the car with a tummy full of pizza just sort of shut up and listened to the tale as my Favorite Husband related it, which is an interesting perspective and much more dramatic than *I* would have made it. Of course he's always been a hair on the squeamish side, the poor dear, and he was FORCED to not only look at it twice a day but ACTIVELY TOUCH IT and change the dressings, so I'm guessing it made a much bigger impression on him than it did on me. Plus I was on massive amounts of kick-ass drugs the whole time, so it's not like I really gave two hoots 'n' a holler.
I never really got a good look at it, myself, but it *DID* literally scare an emergency room nurse out of the room. My Favorite Husband, bless him, stepped right up to the plate without a peep of complaint, even when I went on drug-fueled expressions of mawpy gratitude as he worked, which is about as tedious as driving a drunk friend home and they feel the need to express to you how much you mean to them and how much they love you in between episodes of hanging out the window throwing up. Which really separates the men from the boys, don't it. Anyway, to hear him talk of it now two years later he made it sound like I spent most of my time in utter agony, and I don't remember any of that. The only time I remember the pain being REALLY BAD was, ironically, over a month into it, when (at least this is my theory) my nerve endings grew back but didn't grow stuff to cover them for a few days, leaving them literally exposed to the elements. I *WILL* admit that was the worst pain ever in the history of the WORLD.
But my Favorite Husband has me flopping about from the agony of it all, and when our friend turned to me in sympathy and concern Mojo was all like just shrugging and saying, "I guess. I dunno. I don't remember a darned thing about THAT." To which my Favorite Husband would correct me and tell me no, my darling, you were in agony, you were just too high on the oxycontin to appreciate it. So I shut up. Besides, we occasionally encounter those who infer or outright INSIST that the accident as described COULDN'T POSSIBLY HAPPEN, and I have a tendency now to never cast doubt on the story for fear that people will somehow not believe my Favorite Husband's description of Mojo's Heroic Fortitude. Yes, people say it couldn't possibly happen, even though our well pump is COVERED WITH WARNING STICKERS telling you oh-yes-it-sure-CAN-happen, especially if you inherit a well pump installed by someone with only a vague passing nod toward building codes and Proper Plumbing Procedures. Mojo is not sure what irritates her more--the accusation that she is LYING about her accident, or the accusation that she is such an inept moronic creature that of all the cool things she COULD be lying about in her life she has, for some obscure reason, chosen THIS one. Mojo is a firm believer that, if you're gonna lie, ya might as well BENEFIT from it, so what's the point here? I mean, SHEESH!
When I first SAW our well pump--and while Mojo has sweated her share of copper pipes she is by no means an EXPERT--one look at all the garden hoses and hose clamps used in its installation made me think, well, gosh, THAT can't be legal, and it was always in the back of my mind to fix it. But you know how it is, you think, well, gee, it's lasted THIS long, and besides I'm too lazy to go to the Home Despot and buy all the connectors and flux and stuff. And the next thing you know you are dancing around your house naked except for a large ice pack clamped to your shoulder and rethinking this whole laziness route as a Valid Path to Serious Personal Development.
But then the oxycontin kicks in and you start thinking that laziness really isn't such a bad thing after all, huh? And then you fall asleep for several hours. And when you wake up you think, uh-oh, I slept through my medicine time; where's the oxycontin? Oxycontin oxycontin oxycontin. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Anyway, now it being two years later I can no longer use the oxycontin-induced excuse anymore, so I will only say that I INTENDED to have a really funny cute composition in honor of my burnday, complete with a little animated dramatization of the incident, with a little naked cartoon Mojo hopping about, but I never got around to it. Oh, well.
Anyway, Happy Burnday to me. And yes, it still hurts and itches like crazy, thank you very much. You just sort of learn to ignore it. Which I must point out, is rather HARD TO DO when people ask you "Does it still hurt?" Which is why--along with the simple fact that people got bored with it and it ceased to be an effective means of garnering cheap sympathy and attention--Mojo now only reserves this One Special Day to complain about it. So consider it complained about. Maybe I will finish my little animation for NEXT year...