The One In Which P.J. Almost Offs Himself.

Friends, I was almost widowed this weekend. 

And it would've been painful. Painfully embarrassing, that is. For me. 

In less stressful times.

On Friday night, after Peej's show opened, he returned home and complained of having lower region pain. At first he thought he was dying of a hernia or something else that I didn't take entirely seriously (because a- he is either completely fine OR on death's doormat with no middle ground ever and b- he later told me that my Braxton Hicks contractions were "sympathy pains." For him. Yes).

So he took a bath- another oddity, for he is A Man who only lies down in pain when something heavy is pressing upon him, like an anvil.

Side note: I remained in the other room, still reeling from the movie that we accidentally watched in its entirety. Killing Me Softly, ever heard of it? Joseph Fiennes and Heather Graham? Aw-ful. With an emphasis on awe. As we shuffled through the channels, we landed on this "erotic thriller" (which sadly, was neither) and watched five minutes as a joke. Then we literally could not look away. We were stunned into watching the masterpiece in one fell swoop. (What kept me going was that the plot line was almost exactly that of So I Married An Axe Murderer, sans Mike Meyers, Nancy Travis, comedy, or haggis.)

Huge digression, I realize, but I need to set the stage for why such a long period of time passed before I went to check on Peej. I needed a Cheers marathon to wipe away all of the poignant looks and incredibly trite dialogue.

Anyhow. Opened the bathroom door a while later to see if he needed anything for the triage...and heard "Careful!"

Because my husband, the love of my life and half of my kids' DNA- was in the tub with a plugged-in laptop sitting on the edge.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING," I CALMLY ASKED.

"Work."

"Why is the computer plugged in?"

"It's dying."

I informed him- pleasantly- that he was being a moron. He politely disagreed. I pointed out that our insurance policy would not cover acts of stupidity. He rebutted that sitting in a tub with a computer wasn't exactly like jumping out of a plane. (I agreed with him on this one. 'Cause at least one would've made a better tragic death.)

Afraid I hadn't made myself clear, I told my husband that I would dispose of his body in the neighbor's recycling bin if he killed himself so idiotically. (Why the neighbor's? Because the city hasn't yet given us our own blue bin. Sorry Anita, I didn't want you to have to find out this way.) P.J. agreed that this was fair.

I told him that I wished I could blog about stuff like this- but had, until this very moment, refrained out of kindness towards my spouse. He gave me the green light, asking what 'being nice' had ever gotten anyone? (Besides respect, integrity, and a sense of humanity, I kinda had to agree with him.) He then went on to quote an episode of Blossom in which her Dad dated a stand-up comedian who used him for material. The Dad was rightfully upset, but then realized that the woman was who she was. And to change her would be wrong. (I had been SO READY to ridicule him...but then remembered that I had also seen this episode. Wind= taken out of sails.)

As he didn't want me to be tired and stressed out(!), he told me to go on up to bed, feeling confident in his abilities to both a) not die and b) also impart a life lesson.

I fell asleep wondering a) if my husband was going to die horridly and b) when he had ever watched Blossom, since he had grown up without cable. College? Was he watching Blossom with his roomies?

All ended well, even though P.J. ended up falling asleep, too.

In the tub.