You never really appreciate your appendages until you try to kill them. I took the dogs out for their final nightly tinkle time, got everyone in for the forthcoming treat time and promptly slammed the big ass back door right on my index finger. I began flailing about and hollering in horrendous pain. To which my loving husband, quite unenthusiastically I might add, asked “Do you need to go to the hospital?” Really? Really? This is your input? Not “shit I bet that hurt, need some ice?” or “dam, are you ok?” Nope, he went right straight to a deadpan “Do you need to go to the hospital?” And this is why I don’t understand why he didn’t understand why I was yelling at him for being a total butt head.

My beloved and now greatly appreciated index finger is going to survive. It is not broken but wowza did that hurt and does it ever still hurt. It hurts when I type. It hurts when I try to open a can of beer (which is my excuse for having downed an entire bottle of wine last night). And it even hurts when it’s doing nothing at all.

My husband has been given a pass even though he still claims he doesn’t understand what he did wrong. But you can darn well bet next time he hurts himself I will be there with an all too sarcastic “Do you need to go to the hospital?” and then maybe he will get it.