Saturday, January 15, 2011

Fresh Cut Grass and Cold Ice Tea

I say in my blog "introduction" what I'm all about. And I think to a degree, I have shown you, in my stories, a good deal about myself. But I'm not really sure, if after all these stories, you have seen any of  "the temper".  Take a minute if you have to...go back and look. I'll wait. Did you see it? In my description? It's right between compassion and love. It's there..TEMPER. Such a nasty thing. Such a useless part of my personality. But it's real, and it's always been there.

I have had a bad temper as far back as I can remember. Sometimes, it can actually result in a funny story. Most times not.

I was seven months pregnant. With Joshua. I had decided that our ugly 1968 single wide trailer needed some home improvement. I got the bright idea, that we would paint the entire outside of the trailer. Before I started it was Aqua with White trim. Yes. I said Aqua. I also said...1968. Quit laughing and keep up. I bought paint. Brown and Beige. And proceeded to get started. I was not working, it was filling my time, and it was serving a purpose. I became "the project" of our trailer park. As you can probably well imagine. A woman seven months pregnant on a ladder..painting. Draws a lot of attention. Now of course, I could not do it all, my ex husband had to help. And he pretty much did when he would get home in the afternoons. Not fast enough to suit me, but I have always had an instant gratification flaw.  And I have ALWAYS been a tad OCD. I have an insatiable need for cleanliness and order. While my ex husband had absolutely no need for either.

The paint was not what caused the problem. It was the grass. The grass that was up to my knees. I had tried earlier in the day to cut the grass. I could not get the mower to crank. I had gone out several times throughout the day. Trying to crank it. Each time without results. I had waited all day for him to get home. So he could crank it for me. So I could cut the grass.  He came in, sat down on the couch. And that was as far as he intended to go.

I asked him nicely. Several times. I began to get agitated. Now, I still stand by the notion that one of the obvious factors of all this agitation was my seven months of pregnancy. Pregnant women are not always rational. But in all fairness, I probably cannot pin the entire incident I am about to tell you about, on a blown up belly and crazy hormones. My strife excelled to a level of out of control and crazy. How dare he, not get up off his behind, and come crank the mower for me. I was, after all, willing to cut the grass. For which I thought he should be ashamed anyway, to tell you the truth. What man, would really let his pregnant wife get out and cut the grass with a push mower? Mine. Mine would. He wouldn't get up. He wouldn't come and do it for me. Not right now he said.  Mistake number one...I was drinking a glass of tea. Mistake number two, the glass was now empty. Mistake number three, I am a thrower. I am a fit pitcher from waaaaaay back. It was inevitable. That glass was about to leave my hands and nothing good was going to come of it.

I slung it at the wall, behind the couch, above his head. With all my might. Now, for this part, I think he should take complete responsibility. If he had just let it fly, let it hit the wall. None of what I am about to tell you, would have ever happened. But no, he had to be the big man. He had to try and keep it from shattering all over the wall and getting glass everywhere. Which everyone knows is THE best part for the professional fit pitcher. He tried to CATCH IT. With his hands! Who in their right mind wants to catch a glass flying across the room at the speed of light? Him. He did.

He begins to bleed. I feel a  little bad. But not much. I am hollering at him..telling him what an idiot he is..why did he do that..look at him..getting blood everywhere. Look at what you've done.  When, we both begin to notice. His hand is not just bleeding. It is spurting. A piece of that glass had cut into his finger and hit an artery. There is blood everywhere. Spurting. Every time his heart beats. I know at this point I have got to get him to the hospital. So they can stitch him up.We wrap a towel around it and it we are off.

Now, by the time we get to the hospital, which is only 10 minutes away..that towel is soaked. With blood.  It looks as if his whole hand must be gone. Nurses are surrounding us. They must be thinking the same thing. I am trying to explain what has happened. Not what caused it of course. Why I should I be the crazy monster when he was the lazy ex husband?  They take him back so they can get a look at what's going on. An hour later, they come back out. I think we are leaving. We are not. Because of the location of the cut, because of the way it went into his finger...unless they do SURGERY to repair the nerves..he may lose use of that finger. He would be staying over-night.

Now, I do not have to tell you how awful that sounded. How ashamed I felt. I had to call his parents and relay this story. Which was shameful and humilating. I had to call my parents and do the same. And funny enough, though it's not really funny at all..I spent 20 minutes trying to convince my Daddy, that my ex husband did not do anything (physical) to me to have caused all of that. I'm sure he found it hard to comprehend that his sweet little girl could have done such a thing. Well, maybe not too hard. He is my Daddy after all, he knows me well.

To this day, I don't know why we went to the trouble of having that reconstructive surgery on his finger. Because while he has use of the finger, it is still crooked. He tells everyone he comes across (or he used to at least) that I am the reason his finger is now deformed. I maimed him for life. In a fit of anger. For no good reason. I however, think he should thank me. He has been asked more questions about that finger than you would believe. What a conversation piece I have provided for him. Entertainment even, if you will.  That crooked finger has brought him more attention than any other part of his body. What a special finger it is now. So unique. Because his finger..leans just a tad.. unnaturally.. to the left.  Heck, who wants to be like everybody else, I ask you? You can bet your bippy..nobody else can give the finger like he can. He just better watch out who he flips off in traffic about being a dead-on pick... in a line-up.

copyright © 2011 Michelle Mount Mims


  1. Did Mama ever tell you about her painting the house while she was pregnant with Jenn? I don't recall hearing about any broken glass or emergency surgeries, and she was painting inside rooms, but she was very pregnant, teetering on a ladder getting the job done. Well done ladies ;)

  2. Wow girlie. I used to throw when angered. I don't do that anymore.....4 years of therapy, lol. Not for anger, but therapy helped.
    Now, I'm not saying you need therapy..... per se.
    JK <3

  3. dont we all have tempers? you sure know how to keep ones interest. we have to throw things sometime,

  4. Tracy..NO! She never told me that story. That is too funny. Just goes to show...were are some tough women..and nothing can stop us from getting what we want. Well..minus the hospital bill!
    Kimmie...I still throw some...a little..but not near as much..Mims is not up for all that drama..and quite frankly..I don't have much problem getting him to do anything for me. It makes a difference :)

  5. We probably do Mrs. Shirley..some of us just control them better than others.

  6. least you got his attention LOL. Love it!! Another masterpiece by Michelle :)

  7. Love it! Ex was never a bright one!

  8. LMAO .... GF you are not alone ...I'm a thrower and a slammer though I've gotten better as I've gotten older ... better about not throwing and not slamming that is! Slammed my bedroom door so much as a teen ...the door jam had to be repaired.

  9. Yep I hit Barry with an unopened gallon of milk once....haha love this...