Franken Johnna

Item the first: I found out about this guy from Cyn. He looks a little crazed in this photo, but tomorrow he'll be running the London marathon. Sweet lima beans, if, at 101, I am running a marathon, you can bet your sweet bippy I'm gonna look even crazier. Surely makes me wonder what's holding me back right now. You know what I mean?

Item the second: Just in case you didn't click the follow up button and/or somehow missed my endcap comment yesterday, grazie, grazie, mille grazie for the gear suggestions and advice. It REALLY helps.

You wanna know what doesn't help though? The loves of my life cutting themselves to ribbons. It doesn't help AT ALL!

Item the third and final: We have been playing a special game here at the Dwelling Clan home. It's called Fun With Sharp Objects. Warning: do not try this at home. (Not in a box or with a fox. Do not try this with a clam, do not try this Sam I Am!) A fortnight ago, Donna and I get a call from John, "I'm ok, but..." (Don't you hate those phone calls?!) He sounded terrible but he really was ok. Welllllll, except for the small matter of being in the ER getting eleventy billion stitches in his sliced up right wrist. We never did get the straight story about what exactly transpired. It was either a knife fight with super villains, an attempted mauling by (rabid? urban? teddy?) bears, or a box cutter incident in the data center. Take your pick. I should have taken a picture of his arm when it still had all the blue stitches. He's a lucky son of a gun because he miraculously managed to miss the tendons, important nerves, and major blood vessels. If you're twisted interested in things medical and want to see more detail, the pictures should be clickable.
I may have mentioned that Donna is also twisted made of sterner stuff than I. She thought John's stitches were wicked cool. She and John examined them closely and admired the tiny, precise knots. Weird puppies that they are, they were both disappointed not to be allowed to remove the stitches at home when the time came. I had no idea that Donna was so enamored with John's stitches that she would go out and get a set of her very own. This morning she sliced her leg open (in two places) on a piece of metal sticking out of our half-built glass block wall. (The sharpie doodle was my attempt to cheer Donna up while waiting for the doc.) Donna hates to be the center of attention, especially when it means needing to be taken care of. There was no chance I'd be able to talk her into going to the ER, but she did agree to go to the urgent care center. I'm not sure if it was the guts of her leg spilling out (remember that scene in Empire Strikes Back where Han Solo slices open the tauntaun? yeah, like that) or if it was her trusted primary care physician in Durham saying, "Hie thee hither to the Doc In The Box in Chapel Hill" but she was remarkably compliant - for about 287 seconds. John got some butterfly bandages on her and I whisked her out the door. Half-way to the urgent care center around the corner, she was already getting over the shock and beginning to argue that the butterfly bandages would be fine. She hated to shirk her wall building duties and abandon John and Kenneth who had come over to help us; and wow, she just couldn't stand to have a fuss made over her!! She started cursing herself for being stupid enough to have gotten hurt in the first place. Ay yi yi. I interrupted to note that if I had been the one bleeding she would not begin to think, much less say aloud that I was stupid for injuring myself. I calmly pointed out the complete lack of fuss on her behalf. At this very second, friends were not being roused, vital statistics were not being passed, casseroles were not even being prepared. We were merely stopping in to see the doctor. Oh look, we're here! Forty-seven minutes and five stitches later she was back home, covered in mortar as she worked on the wall, griping about not getting to ride her bike today, run tomorrow, or swim for the next two weeks. However she and John were happily comparing wounds. He tried to one up her by reminding her that he'd had more stitches. "Oh yeah? Well, I get to take my stitches out at home!" she replied. I believe he said, "Dang," knowing he was beat. Then she extended the olive branch, "You can help if you want to." They are whacked. No doubt. But I do love them and want them whole!

Needless to say, my training day is a little off kilter. I'm still hoping to get my ride in. Alone. On the trainer. (No sense tempting fate by playing in traffic today!) Ciao.