Our mutts Molly and Shane wake us up with the sun, pacing the wood floors of our bedroom, their nails click-clacking like a telegraph: “WAKE UP! Stop. WE’RE HUNGRY! Stop. WAKE UP!” And on Sundays, after the dogs eat and I finish my third cup of joe, Mr. UnHollywood and I have a standing date; we walk the pups. We’d been racking up the miles for 7 years.
Until last Sunday when he got the 7-year-itch. Would I mind if he bagged our date in favor of a neighborhood basketball game? Part of me, the Jewish Mother part, said: Don’t Do It! The rational part said: You’re Not his Mother.
So he trotted off with a basketball beneath his arm looking happy as a kid playing hooky. I tried not to read into that as I walked the dogs solo.
I wasn’t alone for long. My iphone rang and I smiled, “Ha! He misses me already!”
“I’m hurt,” he said.
“Feels like I got shot in the calf. How soon can you get here?”
Ice, Ice Baby
I ran fast, but once Mr. UnHollywood limped into the car, things slowed down. Way down. The LA Marathon blocked every street between us and the ER. It took us an hour. An hour of Neal futzing with his ice bag and fearing the worst.
When they led us to the Fast Track room, I felt hopeful. I shouldn’t have. It took all day for the doc to offer us crutches and little else.
At home, I took to my new jobs right away: I was bringer of ice, maker of tea, adjuster of pillow – if I wasn’t tone deaf I’d have been singer of songs. The next day I expanded my responsibilities to driver, sandwich maker, and worst of all, waiting room waiter. We waited on doctors, on MRI techs and on a phone call to finally get the results: this was no mere muscle tear, this was a ruptured Achilles tendon. Oy. Everyone was talking surgery.
Thankfully, Sawbones (aka Dr. Ahluwalia) saw it differently and surgery is out. Instead, he sent us to Ortho Wizard Larry Lerman of Lerman & Son in Beverly Hills who fitted Mr. UnHollywood with a soft cast boot that looks like it came off a Star Wars set. Can he drive with that, I asked? Larry shook his head, sympathetic. “Oh, no. He won’t be driving for a while.”
I’ve been shuttling Mr. UnHollywood to and from work and appointments for exactly six days and we’re already mired in a marital morass. I’m a California girl who drives leisurely, safely, dare I say, politely?
He’s from New York where it’s all about cursing like a drunken sailor and getting from Point A to Point B on the double. To him, if you’re not changing lanes every 3 seconds and constantly rushing and re-calculating your route for maximum expediency, frankly, you’re not driving. Do opposites really attract? Wish us luck.