Champagne Stitches

Anglophile Football Fanatic's been doing a walk down memory lane on her blog, so I thought I would copy her idea rather than write another post about my houseguests. (Although I will note that Hubby has absolved me of all responsibility for them, so if they would just stop asking to borrow my car or giggling as they looked under my couch pillows - I mean, all people with kids have crayons in their couches, right? - all would be well. Or, uh, not that bad. ) Anyway, AFF's post is all cute and romantic. Naturally mine is not. At least not in any traditional way.

When Hubby and I first began dating, we were in denial. Neither one of us wanted a serious relationship and we were definitely not looking to fall in love. When someone would refer to him as my boyfriend, I would loudly protest that we were JUST DATING and that he was NOT my boyfriend.

In fact, I was relieved when he would be unable to attend my friend Mimi's wedding with me. I was a bridesmaid, knew 3/4 of the guest list and was looking forward to dancing with her young, hot co-workers. Hubby was attending a huge paintball tournament in Oklahoma that weekend. I went to the wedding and had a fantastic time.

In fact, I had such a fantastic time that when my friend Todd dropped his champagne glass, I quickly hopped up to find a server to clean it up. But after having had so much fantastic champagne myself, I forgot that I wasn't wearing any shoes. (I'd taken off my killer heels) I sliced my foot open on a piece of glass. But because I was having such a good time, I just wrapped it in a towel and kept dancing.

I noticed that it was still bleeding when I went home that night, but I just wrapped it in gauze and passed out went to sleep.

When I woke up with a killer headache the next morning, I noticed that it was still bleeding. And that I had trailed blood up my carpeted stairs. I decided to hit the ER. They cleaned out all the glass and stitched my foot up - while they were laughing at me. The doctor tried to lecture me about cut care, but he was laughing too hard.

Anyway, I went home and set myself up on the porch. I got myself a diet pepsi, a new ashtray (yeah, yeah, I know), a pile of books and propped my foot up. I couldn't face cleaning the trail of blood through my house. Hubby came over that night, after a long day of paintball and driving.

He got me food. He scrubbed the blood out of my carpet. He re-bandaged my foot.

And I stopped protesting when people called him my boyfriend.