Sometimes that girl...

 One day early in my relationship with the Captain - so early he hadn't yet earned the moniker as I define it - he was talking to my father. I don't remember why, but it was a sunny day and they were at my childhood home, walking up the driveway, I think.

At any rate, something had happened that hadn't gone to plan and my father looked at Jeff, sighed, and said, "Sometimes, that girl just don't listen."

I'm sure I protested vociferously, but truth be told, he was right. A fact the Captain likes to remind me of from time to time.

Like when my surgeon advised me that once he'd cut off my bunion and its painful cousin, a bone spur, "You'll be able to walk right out of here." Now. I'd already learned that today's bunionectomy procedures were much better than past year's work and a minimally invasive procedure was much less painful than when they used a hacksaw and whiskey. Or whatever.

So, I didn't cancel any plans. I actually made some. And I was sure that I could work the afternoon of my outpatient surgery. It was when I'd woken up and the doctor was talking to me about what was to come that I really came to.

"Uh, so when will I be able to exercise?" I asked. I asked this not because I love to exercise, but my fat cells are determined little breeders, and any chance they get to procreate, they do. See the size of my gut if you don't believe me.

He kind of frowned and looked at Jeff, trying to be subtle about his "can you believe this chick, expression. The Captain had already ratted me out for my work plans and weekend activities that included helping set up and then attending a Ronald McDonald House fundraiser. 

"Uh," the doctor said. "You'll be in the boot for six weeks. No walking unless it's to the bathroom for at least a week."

This was Tuesday. The Captain has been taking care of me super well as I sit around waiting for the next time I can take pain medication. Has he been extra Captain-y at times? Roger that. But I am incredibly grateful that he's here. If you're going to have a partner in life, make it someone like Captain Reed. 

So, I have been able to do a little work. I only take the narcotic pain pill after I stop working, lest I get really crazy. And happily, that's worked out well. I'll learn Tuesday afternoon if the restriction about walking lifts at all. Thank you to Annmarie Robertson, Andrea Crawford, Amanda Stanley, Bree Emsweller Jennifer Williams and Karin Ogden for picking up my slack at Brunch & Blingo this weekend. I will make it up to you, I swear.

And, also happily, I have a fun weekend prior to surgery to look back on. We flew down for a super fast weekend of nonstop fun with Godfather Bob and Kathy Johnson in Ft. Myers. Bob, as many of you know, performed our wedding ceremony 26 years ago, and we don't see them often enough. We'd only visited them in their idyllic vacation condo once in the 15 or so years they've been down there.

I tried to convince the Captain to buy our own spot while we were there. Going to a Boston Red Sox Spring Training game we a big help in that direction, and Kathy is on the job to alert me to great deals.

While I am always on the hunt for alligator sightings whenever we are in Florida, and there were several signs posted along the canals at the condo complex warning you not to swim for fear of being gator bait, the only one I saw was hanging over a bar, and it was likely fiberglass.

We didn't see any when we kayaked through a Mangrove tunnel either, which was good because it was a tight squeeze and for all the Captain's athleticism, kayaking was not his jam. It was super fun for the rest of us, though, and he persevered.

Our flight was delayed and delayed again so we didn't end up getting home until 3 a.m. Monday, which made for a fun work day. But it was totally worth it.

We were in a tornado watch last evening, and the Captain was glued to the TV watching the radar. At one point he declared that we needed to go to the basement and I reminded him that I was banned from the stairs. He just looked at me and pointed to the door. I did my best impression of Gretl, the littlest Von Trapp who scooted up the stairs on her bum while singing "Good Night, Farewell," to the guests and got down there and back just fine.

And just to prove he was born for the job, knowing I would stress about important things being blown away to Oz, Jeff brought down my laptop and work stuff, along with a bag of things I needed to get to the fundraiser. 

Spoiler: We didn't get blown away, though our neighbors in Winchester, Ind. and folks in Ohio didn't fare as well.

Here he is in better times when he didn't have my chunky butt to care for 24/7. Apologies to anyone who needed him this week.

 And here's me not able to pass up a dare from Bob. Apologies to the horse. I hope this doesn't keep us out of the condo association...