You're So F*#%ing Fired!

This edition was meant to be posted a few days back, but it was pre-empted by Carrie's more spectacular broken thumb.  Since it involves pain, I almost hate to post it.  We are scaring the kids with reports of boat bites, and my nephew Joey even e-mailed to inquire if handicap stickers and parking facilities were available to boats!  I would like to note however, I was somewhat vindicated on the issue of my thigh injury on the cleat by an e-mail we received from Elaine, the former commanding officer of this vessel.  She says she sports a large scar on her thigh from the same cleat!  I was tempted to write back, "If you'll show me yours, I'll show you mine!", but I don't know her quite that well.

What I haven't mentioned until now is that I managed to throw my back out (provisioning back in Morehead City, NC), just as I had each of the past two years preparing for long cruises to Catalina Island.  After only commenting once that, "For such a bright guy, I would have thought you would have figured out it happens every time and been more careful", my first mate was very concerned, helpful, and sweet...for a couple of days.  Which brings me to the somewhat graphic title of this post.

A few years back after a great company Christmas party, my partner Bobby, our LA area manager Vic, and a then fairly new project engineer who worked in LA, Chris and thier wives (in Chris' case a girlfriend) were driving back late.  There had been much good cheer (translated, all were a bit inebriated, except hopefully Bobby's wife, who drove).

As I later heard the story, Bobby in the front passenger seat, controlled the stereo.  Chris' girlfriend, in the way way back of the Suburban, took issue repeatedly with his choice of music.  Bobby, being the devil he can sometimes be, egged her on with more and more ridiculous choices.  She cranked up her displeasure considerably until Vic finally stepped in and asked, "Do you know who you are arguing with?"  The girlfiend replied, "No, who?"  "That is my boss, one of the two owners of the company!"  Instead of a meek apology she simply turns to her boyfriend Chris and states flatly, "You are so F*#%ing fired!"

Not only did it crack up everyone in the car, it soon became a standard phrase with our management team for any occasion any of us screws up (which by the way, contrary to Donald Trump's or anybody elses wishes happens quite regularly in the real business world).  When we deadpan, "You are (or he/she is) so F*#%ing fired", we obviously are joking, but...

A few days ago when I had to ask my first mate for the zillionth time that day to help me with some minor chore, like rolling up the shore power cord or something, she lost her patience.  Suddenly I was looking eye to eye with the Admiral, and she didn't say it, but I could read in her eyes, ..."You're so F*#%in fired".  I felt like at the very least I was in jeapordy of soon being voted off the island!

Of course, the sea gods were looking out for me, if not her, and a few hours later she was sporting a thumb splint and I was performing tough tasks for her...like opening a botttle of water.  So, I have been spared for now.  As usual, she and I need each other to get through this...go figure.

After spending Mother's Day cruising through The Great Dismal Swamp (catchy name, huh?) we arrived in Norfolk, VA.  Our first order of business yesterday morning was to find an orthopedic surgeon to look at the x-rays of Carrie's thumb.  Of course, the "What If Monster" was planting all kinds of seeds in our minds.  What if surgery...what if this...what if that.  So, we were scientific about chosing an orthopedist, we yellow paged on our iphone and picked the closest one to the port.  Turns out, he was formerly a hand specialist, which made us feel really good until we found out he made his living now mostly doing plastic surgery.  But what the heck, he could see us that day and had a hole in his operating schedule Wednesday, if needed.

On the way over I was working myself up to deal with a plastic surgeon, who by reputation try to talk people into surgery, with a lot of skeptecism.  Although he was quite a character (see photo below) my fears were pointless.  After looking at the (poor) x-rays from the hospital, he said he wasn't even sure it was broken and was pretty sure no surgery would be required.  He cracked us up though when he said, "But, before I committ myself to doing absoloutely nothing, let's get some better x-rays".  These confirmed that though she did have a small break, it was nothing to worry about and would heal quickly on its own.  We were overcome with relief, but in the back of my mind I thought, oh, no, I better get my butt to a chiropractor pretty soon or I'm so F*#%ing fired!

I asked the orthopedist if he could refer me to a chiropractor, which I reflected later is kind of like asking your MD for a referal to a Witch Doctor.  He personally did not do so, but Mickey, his super nice nurse, did.  Off we went and although it seemed to help last night, I am hunched over a bit again today, so I'll be seeing him again this afternoon or Wednesday.  Don't panic, I'm in no immediate danger; her thumb is not healed, yet.

Note the words on the sign in his office!  Perfect!