Back before the new year started, before Christmas, even, when CasinoPalooza 3 was just a blip on the horizon...Mrs. HM suffered an accident of enormous magnitude.
Okay. Suffered may be a bit of a stretch. If I had gone to the emergency room for treatment, and a skeptical, cold-hearted nurse had asked me, on scale of 1-10 what my pain level was...I would have had to answer 0.5. Because you don't wanna skew the felt-pain scale, lest you regenerate your gallbladder and get a stone stuck in a duct, and need morphine to keep you from pulling your own teeth as a distraction. But still...my accident was nothing to sneeze at.
I had carried my yellow bubba cup into the NASCAR bathroom one evening for some water. Yes, Mrs. HM drinks bathroom water. It's easier on the knees than ascending 13 wooden steps for kitchen water. Anyhoo...I had run out of water, and Diet Coke is not a thirst-quencher. It's a treat. A pick-me-up. The greatest beverage ever invented! But I wanted a drink of water.
The NASCAR bathroom sink has a bit of a calcium build-up on the spigot. Rather than clear cold well-water pouring out in a steady stream, you get clear cold well-water spraying out as if a toddler had put his finger over the end of a garden hose. Like a fancy rain shower. The bathroom counter is lower than a kitchen counter. I have to lean over and kind of balance myself at an awkward angle to tilt my bubba cup so that the spray doesn't erode my ice while filling the cup. Sometimes I rest an elbow on the edge of the sink to steady myself, and take tension off my back. This time, I did not. I just leaned over that sink. If I had a dowager's hump, my body might have been the perfect shape for this task.
When I was done filling the bubba cup with water, I turned off the cold-water handle with my left hand, and reached across the sink to pick up Bubba's lid. I plopped Bubba's butt end on the edge of the round sink rim, and pushed until his lid snapped on. Still off-kilter a bit, my vertebrae starting to screech in protest, I simultaneously leaned my head down, and raised Bubba up, to wrap my lips around the red straw jutting out of his blowhole. I miscalculated just a skosh.
I RAMMED THE HOLLOW END OF THAT RED STRAW INTO THE BOTTOM RIGHT SIDE OF MY UPPER LIP!
I imagine that my teeth looked like when a territorial german shepherd hears the mailman's step on the porch. I daresay my lip was dislocated up to near lower eyelid level. That smarted. Elicited tears. I dabbed at the bottom right side of my upper lip, and the back of my hand came away bloody!
Sweet Gummi Mary! Who knew that drinking water is so dangerous?