View from the North 40: The pun is: We nailed it

Marriage experts say that one of the keys to a long and successful marriage is to keep a little surprise, some mystery, in your relationship:

My husband, John, surprised me Saturday morning by having what could best, and most respectfully, be described as a conniption fit.

I had carried three long 2-by-4 studs, slung onto my shoulder, for a short jaunt of about 70 yards. John felt that it was detrimental to my health to carry a load of wood in this fashion, and he expressed his deep concern in a way that sounded like “Grr aargh Blah! @#$%* Buh nergle ferrr DERG!”

Concerned that I had upset him, I soothed his fears: “BrAWr! @#$%^ grr aaargh!”

I would love to report that the tiff was small, but the makeup sex was epic. Just kidding. All we had was a go-to-neutral-corners-and-get-back-to-work agreement.

The good news is that, in a short time, I had a cross brace assembled and was using the forklift to trundle it and a load of tools to the corral to get my gate project finished. This is what passes for excitement on the North 40.

Unfortunately, from that point on nothing went as hoped, and my progress was fraught with one little thing going wrong after another, until the big thing went wrong with a bang.

I smashed my index finger between the hammer and an immovable metal work surface.

I know some folks aren’t as OK with descriptions of injuries as I am, so let me just say up front that no bones or fingernails were damaged in the making of this injury. The fleshy part of the end section of my index finger, however, was not as lucky. No worries, I can happily report that it is healing much better than it looked right at that moment.

And right at that moment it looked good enough to fit into a little scene in a television medical drama, complete with a considerable amount of, um, life fluid leaking.

With a lot of teeth clenching and air sucking, I swore my way through cleaning the finger which looked both better and worse than I expected. It definitely needed a pressure wrap, though.

Before I applied the no-stick sterile pad with the medical tape of unknown age that I was fighting to get started, I had a moment of clarity. With five decades worth of lessons from previous injuries knocking at my conscious thoughts, I decided to have John look at the wound to see if he thought it needed more expert medical attention.

Believe me, after his reaction to the simple 2-by-4 thing that morning, showing him a finger I mangled with a hammer was about the last thing I wanted to do, but I have been accused of lacking good judgment in these matters in the past.

Back up to the shop I headed with my right hand clamping the sterile pad to my left index finger and the roll of tape — which still wasn’t started — dangling from a pinky finger.

FYI, this is where the “keep some mystery in your relationship” part of our tale began.

While I was standing there with my hamburgered finger, still leaking steadily, he was like, "Yeah, you're done working for the day. I think you’re right, a pressure wrap ought to do it. (Insert long pause and a sheepish look here.) Ummm, this probably isn't a good time to ask, but are you done with the drill now?"

Seriously?

Meanwhile, I was still bleeding and still trying to get the tape started. I asked if he had some electrical tape to wrap the bandage because the wound was starting to look a little gruesome, more swollen, very purple and more leaky.

"Yeah, sure, black, white or green tape? Let's do white, it's more medical-y. Well, um, I hate to use up all my white. Let me find the black. ... Oh, you got that medical tape started. Good. Well, I'll send this black tape with you in case you need it ... or I can drive you to town so you can get some other tape."

As of April 1st, John and I have 27 years of marriage together, and it's surprises and mysteries like this that help up keep it fresh.

(We won’t get bored any time soon at [email protected].)