My brother practiced medicine in the greater London area for two years and my nephew is still a British subject.
One of my best friends lives in Hampshire, England, and is dying horribly from what he was told is epilepsy. I am convinced that he could easily be treated at the IU Medical Center in Indianapolis with Gamma Knife surgery. My family knows first hand this brave new world that we will be entering tomorrow.
As we prepare to step off the precipice with this takeover of the American healthcare system, some unrelated humor may provide some relief.
Yesterday, I made a tragic mistake. At 4 a.m. (3 a.m., to my body), Sherman woke me up to take him outside to go potty. That done, I stumbled back to bed and left him unattended in the rest of the house.
Approximately three hours later, I rolled out of bed and wandered into something resembling the cross between a crime scene and a war zone.
The casualties were many; a pair of my shoes, a pair of my $300 arch supports, other dead and wounded items were scattered around the floor.
Gasp! What is that white fluff and bits of yellow foam? It was one of the cushions to the couch. As Sherman looked at me with merry eyes and wagging tail, he apparently had no idea that he may have committed a capital offense.
The supreme ruler was still in bed. As current president of the Breakfast Optimist Club, I had to leave for the meeting shortly. What to do?
The only thing to do for the moment was a quick clean up, stuffing the foam and fluffy into the hole in the couch cushion, putting the puppy in bed with her royal highness, covering the damage with a "throw," and hope for the best as I headed out the door.
Upon my return, I could immediately tell the jig was up and the crime discovered.
"Uh, hi dear." (...).
"Yes, dear." (...).
"You're right dear." (...).
"Of course we can spend most of the day shopping for a new couch." (...).
"Yes dear, if we are replacing the couch, we can certainly replace our chairs with new chairs to match the new couch." (...).
It's going to be awfully uncomfortable sleeping on a couch with a damaged or missing cushion.
The supreme ruler also reminded me that several weeks ago, she told me that if we continued to leave Sherman unattended in the living room, one day we would come home to find just such a disaster. (Yvette made me add this, "I told you so," to my column).
We here in Brazil are blessed with a Saint of a woman. Her name is Barb Nolte. She is the owner of Nolte's Upholstery. She made me promise not to build her up too much, but I plan on nominating her as the patron saint of desperate husbands.
Barb Nolte is a skilled upholsterer of many years experience. Fortunately, she has a soft spot in her heart for husbands and puppies.
She must have instinctively known that the couch was my likely sleeping place for the foreseeable future. Incredibly, she was able to take the damaged cushion and repair it the same day. After the repair, I was unable to tell that it had ever been damaged.
However, Yvette's super human wife vision was certain that someone, somehow, would be able to detect the damage and most of the living room furniture would still have to be replaced.
Fortunately, there is a happy ending to the story. After 24 hours of indentured servitude, the supreme ruler has decided that I will only have to replace the chairs and have Nolte's Upholstery make us new cushions. Sherman has had his death sentence commuted to probation.
I got to sleep in bed with my most wonderful, loving, tolerant, gracious wife.
Would you like me to add more compliments about you, dear?