Anyone in the market for a new daughter? I have one I’m selling. Heck, I’d give her away at this point. She does come, though, with a consumer warning. She operates best if you put duct tape over her mouth. Seriously.
So, here’s the story. Saturday, we’re helping the fire family load up some of our extra furniture from the old house. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, go read the post about furniture and Prozac. Yeah, that one.
Back to my story - one of the things we’re donating is a television set. A big one. The problem: the TV set is upstairs – and it’s gotta’ get downstairs so it can go out the door, onto the truck. I look around – I’m by myself. No one is in my perimeter to help me carry the freakin’ thing, and I’m in too much of a hurry to wait for someone to help me. So, I do it myself.
I carried that 500-pound TV (okay, perhaps I exaggerate slightly – but it sure seemed like half a ton!) down the freakin’ stairs and out onto the truck. And I think, “That’s that. I don’t need no stinkin’ muscle men to help me. I am Woman. Hear me roar.”
So, later that afternoon, daughter and I are driving back to the old house, cruising down the highway, when all of a sudden – WHAT THE HELL was that pain in my back??!!! Oh my God, that hurt!
Spasm. Really bad spasm. Spasm so bad I broke out into a sweat. Yeah, that bad. After it’s over, I think, “Wow. That was intense. Hopefully, that’s it.”
No such luck.
Two minutes later – holy smokes! – HERE IT COMES AGAIN! Geesh, that hurts!
Off an on – all the way home. Pain so bad I was seriously doing Lamaze breathing exercises so I could drive and die at the same time.
Daughter gets very concerned, saying, “Are you okay? You should tell Daddy.”
I say, through gritted teeth, “I’m fine – and do NOT tell Daddy.”
I’ve been married to “Daddy” long enough to know that he will not have any sympathy if he hears about this. Oh no, he will not. Instead of sympathy, I will get the “What the hell were you thinking?” lecture which also includes the “You’re CRAZY, you know that?!” commentary.
So – what Daddy doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right?
Of course, the minute we got home, Dear Daughter ran right in to tell Daddy that Mommy’s back was really, really sore. So, instead of a nice, delicious dinner, I got the lecture. And for dessert? The “crazy” comment. And no sympathy.
And Sunday morning at church? A couple walked up to me and said, “We hear you hurt your back. You’re on the prayer list now for our class.”
I looked at them in shock, like they had psychic or ESP powers or something, and they said, “Oh – your daughter told us. She was in our Sunday School class this morning.”
It will probably be on CNN tomorrow – or “Good Morning, America.” Perhaps Oprah’s already heard the news by now and will be calling me for an exclusive interview. My daughter hasn’t left anyone out, I’m sure, in her quest to spread the news.
Of course, Dr. Oz will probably have me on his show and give me the lecture about not lifting heavy things by myself. And then Dr. Phil will have me on to tell me I’m crazy.
And I’ll smile sweetly and say, “Tell me something I don’t know, Dr. Phil. Tell me how to stop these murderous thoughts towards my big-mouth daughter.”
Disclaimer: I love my daughter – big mouth and all. And I love my hubby – editorials and all. And my back? It sucks. But I’ll be fine.