Home

Regretfully, Pam was not able to write her column this month.  She was just too busy with flowery, girly things. Luckily her husband, Chuck, was available and came to her rescue, as he so often does.  Pam will be back next month, but for today, sit back and enjoy hearing “the rest of the story” from Pam’s husband, Chuck… 

Hello, everyone.  It’s me…Chuck…Pam Archer’s husband.  Remember me from Pam’s March column?  Her husband whose initials are Charles Archer?  Well, since Pam couldn’t write her column this month, I have stepped up to the plate to fill in for her.  This column will be for all you fellow husbands out there.  You know…us tobacco chewing, pick-up truck driving, deer hunting, hound dog and shotgun owning, southern he-men that have wives who just don’t seem to realize how lucky they are to be married to us!

 

Remember Pam telling you about me having what she called the “Norovirus”, and how it was easier for her to deal with a sick two-year old than…to use her words…”an ill, grown, adult male”.  I’m going to take this opportunity to set the record straight! 

 

First of all, I wouldn’t have had the Norovirus at all if my lovely wife hadn’t felt the need to travel to
Las Vegas with her sister.  Can you think of a better hangout for germs than airports or airplanes?   I don’t know where Pam picked up this germ, but what I do know, is that she carried it home with her and infected me.  But before infecting me with it, she somehow aggravated it to the point that it was all worked up and in a rage and looking to wreak havoc on someone. 

 

I suspect trying to force it (the virus) to sit through “Phantom of the Opry” may have had something to do with it.  Lord knows I’d be worked up and in a rage too, if I had to sit through the “Phantom of the Opry”.  Think of it…no place to chew and spit, grown men running around in what appear to be long johns, everybody on stage singing to each other instead of carrying on normal conversation.  Why is that?  Do you know of anyone who sings their conversations rather than just speak them?  I know I don’t.  Can you just see yourself singing your latest deer huntin’ story to your huntin’ buddies rather than just telling them?

 

So, now I’ve got this enraged “Norovirus” and it is definitely wreaking havoc on me.  It started in the middle of the night.  Why is it that a virus always starts in the middle of the night?  I was awakened by an urgent need to visit the bathroom and visit the bathroom I did…again and again and again.  Quietly, I might add, since I didn’t want to wake my lovely wife, Pam.  I even went to the guest room between bathroom trips rather than going back to bed.  No need waking her just because I have to go the bathroom.  Unlike her, who wakes me in the middle of the night just to tell me there’s a light on somewhere.  Why do we both have to be awake just because she forgot to turn out the light in the garage, and why do I have to be the one to get up and turn it off, when she should have noticed it and turned it off when she came to bed? 

 

Remember in her column where she said she overslept because I hadn’t awakened her?  What does that tell you?  And she has the nerve to compare me to a two year old!  This lady cannot even get her own self up in the morning.   She’s worse than a kid to get out of bed.  I gently shake her saying, “Honey, time to get up.”  I go back and turn on the light saying, “Honey, get up.”  I go back and turn on the TV…loud!  Then I jerk the covers off her and she gets up saying “I’m awake, I’m awake.”  “Yeah, right”, I’m thinking, “so what was all that snoring about?”

 

What was that she said about men feeling like they should call 911 for a hangnail?  Shows you what she knows about men.  Real men like us don’t get hangnails…I don’t even know what a hangnail is.  Real men like us don’t call 911 for anything!  Show of hands here…didn’t you just take yourself to the emergency room the last time you had a problem you couldn’t take care of with duct tape?  I know I did.

 

I’ll have to admit there was one occasion where I did have to have someone else drive me to the emergency room.  It was the time I sawed my left knee with a chain saw and since my truck had a straight drive transmission, I felt that I would basically just pump all the blood out of my body by pushing the clutch in to change gears on the way to the emergency room.  So my dear old grandmother drove me, (I think she actually hit speeds of up to forty miles an hour at times), to the emergency room while I sat in the back seat with a bath towel around my leg to keep blood from pooling in the floorboard.  I knew I had a problem when the emergency room doctor looked at it and asked me, “Do you know any surgeons?”  I asked, “Aren’t you a doctor?”, to which he replied, “Yes, but I think you need a surgeon.”  I did know a surgeon, and after he put fifty-six stitches in my leg, I walked out of the emergency room.  Now I ask you, does this sound like a man who would call 911 for a hangnail?  No!  I’m sure you men out there have stories to top mine. 

 

So, here I’ve been sick for four days and all that my lovely wife is concerned about is the fact that I haven’t taken a shower.  No matter that I’m withering away to nothing here.  No matter that I had to get myself up out of my “deathbed” for some nourishment because she was always too busy talking to some future bride about her wedding plans.  Too bad none of them had their fiancés with them so I could have given them some insight on what they were about to get into. I didn’t smell that bad!  I mean, only four days…and the only activity I was engaged in was going to the bathroom and back to the bedroom.  Not really working up a sweat here, like I would if I had been climbing

Clinch
Mountain on a deer hunting trip.  Four days…that’s nothing during deer season…you all know that.  If you all are like me, you probably go for a week or more without a shower during deer season.  I mean, that “Doe in Heat” buck scent is so expensive.   I don’t want to wash it off and put more on every day! 

On the other hand, maybe I was a little odiferous, since I didn’t have on any “Doe in Heat” cover scent.  But then, how could Pam have smelled me?   I couldn’t get her away from brides long enough to smell me anyhow.

 

And what about all those cakes she had to bake for people during my illness?  Did you all notice that none of those cakes were for me?  Why, you would have thought I started World War III just trying to get her to bake a biscuit for me.  But she didn’t have time to bake any biscuits…had to bake all those cakes.  I guess she finally realized that if I didn’t get nourishment I was going to die, so she finally agreed, (out of guilt I’m sure), to go get me a biscuit from Greenwood Market.  Thank the Lord for
Greenwood Market!  They’re the single biggest reason I’m still alive today!

 

Pam had to have oral surgery during my struggle with the Norovirus.  Now remember where she made the comment that we men would call 911 for a hangnail?  Well, she decided she could not drive herself to the oral surgeon, so I agreed to get out of my “deathbed” and take her.  I got up extra early to take a handful of Imodiums and give them a chance to work. 

 

I sat quietly in the waiting room, with my legs tightly crossed, reading a ten month old copy of Time magazine.  Finally, one of the surgeon’s assistants came out and told me that my wife should be ready to go home in about 30 to 45 minutes.  She said “Pam is asleep right now.”  I’m thinking, “I’m sitting here hoping I can make it back home before my Imodium wears off and she’s back there taking a nap!”  The assistant took me back to see her and sure enough there she was…sound asleep.  Obviously she just can’t hold her painkillers.

 

After a while she finally wakes up, but it’s still obvious that she doesn’t know where she is.  I picked right up on that because the first thing she said was, “Where am I?”   The assistant and I roll her out in a wheelchair to my pick-up truck.  After explaining to her several times that she could get in the truck a lot easier if she would put her other left foot in first, we finally got her in the truck.

 

Got her home, but getting her into the house was quite a chore.  While leaning on me, she would take a step and then ask why the ground was spinning.  So here I am trying to hold her up and get her in the house without straining too much.  I’m afraid my Imodiums were wearing off, and you just don’t want to strain when you’re in that condition, know what I mean? 

 

I finally got her settled on the couch so she could watch her soap opry (can’t miss that you know) and she asked?  “Honey, would you get me some crushed ice?”  Can you believe the nerve of her?  I tell you, taking care of an inebriated wife is worse than trying to take care of a two year old!

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s