Since I like to brag, I'll tell you that Husband has been changing my diaper for nearly a month.
Diarrhea? Hemorrhoids? Bladder leakage? Heavy flow?
Life should be that easy.
Long story short, for some reason this Cape buffalo thought I was Jimmy John Liautaud, so he dipped his horns in liquid hot magma and gored my left ass cheek. I howled in agony that I: 1. Was not the proprietor of a mediocre fast-casual sandwich chain, 2. Am phobic-to-the-max of horned animals, and 3. Do not kill animals as trophies.
Short story long, if you read my column, you'll recall the noncancerous mass on my ass I had removed a couple weeks ago. (If you don't read my column, congratulations. Your name will be added to the Pearly Gates VIP list where there's no cover charge, sacramental wine bottles are $100 and entrance includes a private dance from your favorite saint. Act now and get a limited personal high-five from The Man with the rapture plan.)
But this ass ordeal, people. Sweet fancy Moses, I'm so broken. Ugly cry face has taken over like seven times. I can't sleep on my favorite side. Random fevers pop like morning wood. The pain has been, at times, 100 percent unbearable. (It took me 65 hours to push out my kid, so I'd like to think I have a high tolerance for pain, but this is defeating.) I've stained sheets, skirts, granny panties, porcelain and now your virgin visual cortex.
The wound got infected, I learned after sprouting a fever, then it busted open. After two urgent care visits, the bitch then birthed a giant hematoma. It's still leaking all sorts of colors and consistencies.
Since I married my lover on Oct. 28, usually around this time of year, Husband can be seen bending me over a table of gourds and caramel apples, smacking my ass and calling me things like his Big Burrito. But instead he's left changing my overflowing ass bandage (at least) six times a day.
The upside to this party in my pants was documenting and watching the bruise spread. The beautiful sunset-strewn bruise has morphed into a melange of deep purples, blues, reds, greens, oranges, browns and yellows. Its surface area hit both cheeks, then hauled ass down the left leg, stopping at the knee pit.
I want to say I can see the end. It's close. But now it looks like somebody shoveled a chunk off my ass and plopped it on my beer gut. At least the colorful party has wound down, but what remains surrounding the incision is a bloodied, iPad-sized rash lined with torn flesh from removing adhesive bandage after adhesive bandage after adhesive bandage after adhesive bandage after adhesive bandage.
This is where you come in. I'd like to paint this imagery onto a sweater for Husband as a thank you for taking care of me, so any skilled knitters please fax me your updated resume. I have the process well-documented via disposable cameras and straddling office copy machines.
Thanks for listening. Let's talk about sex next week if I'm not dead in a pool of my own body fluids. Which is likely.