parting is such sweet sorrow

It is with mixed feelings that MJE bids adieu to the gas chamber. Sure there were trying times but on balance, I met some incredible people, like the The Pioneer Woman, Laura Ingalls with a microwave and a crockpot. I know there are people like her in the heartland of this great country of ours, and god knows MJE is all about inclusivity (especially for my yard man and dry wall hanger) but you can’t tell me she doesn’t have a .270 short mag stashed next to her mix master. And I’m pretty sure she’s not afraid to use it, especially on someone who looks like my yard man. However, being hermetically sealed in an acrylic tube with her cherubic face beaming down at me as she cooks up massive quantities of macaroni and cheese was like being at a cocktail party full of fascinating people and being stuck with the one bore who doesn’t drink and never shuts up about his vacation.

Then there was Mr Smith, a fellow “diver” (in the parlance of the staff) who despite the explicit rules posted in the changing room about do’s and don’ts (with photos, in case you’re not sure if it’s okay to bring in that stick of dynamite) routinely wore his tighty whiteys under his scrubs. For god’s sake how would my children explain to my grandchildren that graymo was blown to bits by someone’s irresponsible wearing of underpants! Speaking of which, not only were undergarments verboten but so was metal of any kind. Ever a rule follower, MJE dutifully left her wedding ring in the locker during treatments. Well, don’t you know I forgot to retrieve it last week and went screaming back in a panic. After scouring the floor on hands and knees amidst the cast off socks, shoes and diabetic boots without success I reluctantly opened the locker and gingerly rifled though the current diver’s clothes. Finally found it, tangled up in his drawers. Purrell me, STAT.

MJE has also gotten rid of her little bastard wound vac, but not before he fell on her toe and damn near broke it.