THE HOME BAR INCIDENT
I’ve always said things happen to me. It’s no secret I’m a
magnet for mishaps, chaos, and situations that make people say, “Only Michele.”
But apparently… I’ve rubbed off on my husband. Roger is
having his own episodes, because apparently my husband has joined my club, of
accidental injuries.
A couple of months ago, my step kids came from New Jersey to
Pennsylvania for a visit with their significant others included. We had a great
time- laughing, catching up, eating, drinking, and doing all the things
families do when they haven’t seen each other in a while.
In the evening after dinner, we went downstairs to our home
bar.
Now, when I say: “home bar,” I don’t mean a little corner
with a bottle of cheap vodka. No. Ours is 900 square feet of pure
entertainment. A full bar with pub tables, chairs, pool table, dart board,
shuffleboard, basketball game - basically, if Dave & Buster’s had a
basement, it would look like ours.
We were all sitting around the bar after playing some of the
games, having cocktails - because of course there were cocktails...
And shots.
And wine.
That’s how we roll.
Seriously, if you
come to our house and are still sober at the end of the night, that’s on you.
Roger was sitting on one of the wooden bar stools next to a table -
which is actually a giant wooden barrel we pretend is furniture. We’re classy
like that.
Suddenly, we all heard a loud crack.
Everyone froze. You know that moment when a group
collectively thinks, “What just broke and how expensive is it?”
Roger stood up, turned the stool on its side, inspected it,
and said, “Huh. Looks fine.”
Then he went to flip it upright.
And that’s when the universe said, “Let’s have some fun.”
He grabbed one of the stool legs to lift it, and the entire
leg came off in his hand like he was performing a magic trick. The stool
dropped.
There he stood:
Stool leg in one hand… And the edge of the barstool fell
directly on the instep of his foot!
His facial expression displayed pain and the look of “I
regret everything I just did.”
He looked down at the stool, then at his foot, then at us,
and said:
“Yeah… it’s broken.”
The five of us didn’t know if he meant the stool or the foot.
Turns out, he meant both.
He had a scratch where the stool hit him on the instep of
his foot, so we sent him upstairs to clean it. He came back and I asked him if
he could wiggle his toes- and he did. I said well, you just walked upstairs on
it- how’s it feel. He said sore, but not bad. His daughter is a nurse and told
him to get the foot checked in the morning anyway.
Morning arrives.
Roger’s foot is black and blue, swollen, and looking like
it’s auditioning for a medical textbook. He could still wiggle his toes, which
was good, but the foot still looked like it had been through a bar fight.
Once the kids left after breakfast, we hightailed it to the
emergency room. They did x‑rays, poked, prodded, asked
questions, and finally said:
“No break. No fracture. Just badly bruised.”
Which is an ER‑translation for:
“You’re fine, but you’re going to complain about the bill.”
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I said at the
beginning of this story:
I think I’m rubbing off on my husband. Because now he’s
breaking furniture and injuring himself too. I used to be the only one silly things
happened to.
Now Roger has joined the club.
I’m not sure if I should be flattered… or concerned.
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