Background: Jason and I were in New Orleans visiting the most wonderful person in the world (my sister Katharine) from March 18-21. We had a great time. We walked around the city. We ate snowballs. We attended a dance class for toddlers. We visited the North Shore. We sat on the bayou. We watched some Bear Grylls videos. I developed a sunburn on my chest and in the part of my hair. You know, all in all, time well spent. So the day after we returned, I awoke early in the morning to dull pain in my right hand. I did not think much of it, and I went to work as usual. But by the end of the day, I was in so much pain that I went into an empty office, shut the door, shed a few tears, and called Jason because I figured he needed to at least vicariously experience my pain and also pick me up from work and take me to the urgent care straight away. However, I had a meeting at church at 7 p.m that night and I was worried that I could not fit in an urgent-care hand inspection before attending a meeting in which my sole purpose for being there was to take notes, which required USING MY HANDS. The diagnosis: I had some terrible tendonitis (or something similar that you can't see on an x-ray) in the large joint of my right-hand index finger. The short-term solution: ibuprofen and a splint. Lateness to the meeting: 7 minutes. What I decided to write about with pen and paper upon returning home: the story that follows. Ease of writing while wearing a splint: None. From 22 March 2011 I look like a crazy person. A crazy person with poor penmanship. I walked into that meeting at church tonight late and with my right hand in a splint, a MacBook Pro in the other hand, and a ring of red encircling my upper chest. I looked so crazy that someone had the balls to ask me about the chest redness, and people only ask about strange skin conditions if (a) they are one of your female relatives; (b) they have no tact; or (c) they think you actually look like a crazy person. And trust me, I know about these things because—whisper this word with me if you will—psoriasis runs in the family. (As does adult-onset cradle cap—and if you thought that cradle cap was only relegated to the very young, you are wrong, and even though you may not want to believe me, trust me on this: I sleep with it every night.) Anyway, Jason has been very kind. He did all the dishes, made my lunch, took Miss Betty inside for me. But apparently he has limits. I walked into the living room tonight with a strand of floss in my hand and the following conversation ensued: Marge: Can you help me floss my teeth. I can't do it with one hand. Jason: No. You can skip a day. Marge: But I ate pesto for lunch. Jason: I know. You've had green things in your teeth all day. Well thanks husband. I will remember this.
