Livin' La Vida Loca

Yes, I'm alive...but no, I'm not Ricky Martin. Sorry to disappoint my female readers. In fact, I'm far from it.

Things have been hectic and I haven't had time to construct any coherent sentences. Between buying a new house, selling our current house, getting stupid drunk on Friday, and then getting hit in the face with a softball yesterday, it's been...busy.

Although the real story is probably about how a simple Friday dinner with friends resulted in WWF-style wrestling on our living room floor, I can't really remember enough details to regale you with.

So, instead, you get to hear about the "softball incident".




We started playing softball for the beer afterwards. We play on a corporate co-ed team and all of the players are over 30 (or quickly approaching 30), and have serious desk jobs. So, at least one of us gets hurt every game. Sad, I know.

I was relegated to playing catcher because I have, basically, no eye hand coordination. If I know the ball is being thrown at me, I'm ok. Catching a fly ball, or worse, line drive...it's not happening.

Yesterday was the first game of the season. Given that the only reason we didn't come in last in the league last year was because another team decided to forefeit the season, our hopes were high.

Our first game actually went REALLY well. I think we won 14 - 5. Mind you, it was not because of our skill...but rather because the other team stunk. At any rate, a good pitch comes in, I catch it in my mitt...and instead of trapping it with my other hand, I let it bounce out of my mitt and hit my lip.

Not the smartest thing I've ever done. I immediately taste blood. So, what do I do? I dab it with my shirt repeatedly and finish out the inning. Then, I put ice on it. Then, I go to bat and actually hit a single (that NEVER happens to me). Then, we have a weird string of luck and I actually get to run in. Wow.

More ice on the face. Other team members take my place as catcher so I can continue to ice my face. As people realize I've actually hurt myself, they start telling me, "Really, it looks fine. Sort of like Angelina Jolie....Well, sort of...."

I go to bat again and strike out (more my style). More ice on my face.

The Antidote is starting to look REALLY worried. "Curare," he says (well, he doesn't call me Curare, but work with me), "I think we need to go to the emergency room. That might need stitches."

As the first game is over and we have enough people to field the second game, we jump in the car. The first look I get at my face I realize, I DO look like Angelina Jolie...

...except her lips are sexy swollen. And only one half of my top lip is swollen...and has a gaping cut in it. Not so sexy.

We tried several urgent care facilities on the way to the emergency room. On a side note, why is it that urgent care facilities are only open during "business hours." I mean, what's so urgent about getting sick during the day when your doctor can see you?! At any rate, we get the emergency room...the triage desk asks me what the problem is...and I pull the ice away from my face.

"OOHHH." Nice reaction lady. So, I fill out the paperwork and under "reason for emergency" I write: Took a softball to the face, have a fat lip that probably needs stitches.

Everyone gets a kick out of reading that for some reason. The Antidote is sitting next to me, feeling like everyone is looking at him as the battering husband. At least we have our matching jerseys on.

So, after only waiting about an hour, I get in to see a PA. She tells me I'm "lucky" because the cut does not cross my lip, but rather, is on the inside of my lip. No stitches, just keep it clean.

I can do that.

When I get up this morning, I realize that it doesn't look that bad. Well, that is, if "not bad" means it looks like I have a raging case of herpes on my lip. Lucky me.

Now, the Antidote wants to buy me a mask. Great, now I'll be like the kid in school that had to wear a football helmet every day because he falls down so much. It's great to be me.