Sigh...

He's broken.

That's right. Married for less than 2 weeks and my husband's already broken. He reached sideways for a t-shirt on Monday morning and herniated a disk. It's a mild herniation according to the doctor, but a herniation nonetheless.

No surgery in the offing, just physical therapy, but at the moment, he has more freakin' prescriptions than an addict. It's unbelievable. Two types of steroids, two muscle relaxants (one for day, one for night) and oxycotin (a.k.a., hillbilly heroin, of course, it's really only called that when you chop it into powder and snort it--NOT on his agenda).

Luckily, his work is being fairly cool. They sent him home early yesterday with orders to not come back until he'd seen a doctor. When he called to say he'd probably be back in on Monday, his direct boss told him just to let her know--'cause you can't mess with the back.

So, my second weekend as a married woman will be spent with a man hopped up on muscle relaxants and thus, most likely snoring and drooling a lot.

On a happier note...

We got married a week ago today at 3:05 PM. That's the pronouncin' time. Just like when you die, they pronounce a time of marriage...

Crikey...

So, I was supposed to represent at an interview today at 12:30. Got there an hour early, was supposed to meet my group at 30 XXXX Street according to the phone instructions I got from the prime last night. No one was in the coffee shop of rendezvous. Went into the lobby. The reception desk said that the floor of the meeting was closed off. OKAY.

Went out to call the prime on my cell. Battery's dead. No access to his number. Find a payphone, have someone at BFJ come up and find my notes from the conversation. Yup. I'm at the right place. Go back to the building. Have the receptionist run through the names of every single person on the team that I know. No dice. It's now 12:25--I call my office from the lobby in hopes of having a message from them. Nada. Keep doing that until 12:45 (15 minutes into the scheduled interview). Give up. Go back to the office.

Just now I went through all the back emails. The interview was at 30 YYYY St. The numbers were the same, so it didn't throw up any flags.

My boss said that obviously there was a mix-up and I shouldn't beat myself up about it. Yeah, 'cause I'm not still beating myself up about something semi-mean I said in front of Tabitha Pugh in the 7th grade.