in the doghouse (speaking of dogs...)

Chuck wants to kick my ass.

My post surgery recovery instructions looked something like this:

1. No stairs (yea, right – umm I live in a 3 story house)


2. No sex for 6 weeks :(


3. Don’t lift anything heaver than a bag of starbucks coffee beans.


4. Stay in bed for a week (who has time for that??!)


5. Not cleared for housework (This is actually the only one I was eager to cooperate on– I am wishing status reports for work were dangerous too)

Yesterday morning, after four days of recovery and being waited on by husband and children I loaded up my overnight bag, laptop and headed to work. I had a new guy starting and needed to be home by Wednesday to take over for Chuck who would by then be on the road to Pendleton.
By the time I returned tonight I was pretty gimped up. Sore and fussy and feeling like I might have pushed my luck because I’ve regressed on one of the post surgery symptoms that had begun to pass before I returned to work. (you don’t want more details than that).

When I confessed to Chuck that I wasn’t feeling so hot before heading home tonight he said, “I’m not going to yell at you until you come home.”

He lived up to waiting until I was home, but I’m sure in trouble now.

Had to chase a Vicodin with a Rolling Rock tonight. Seemed like a reasonable reaction to the emotional and physical pain I'm enduring ;)