Ed's fault

Last night I was climbing into Ed's truck in the garage when a shooting hot pain grabbed the back of my leg. I'd managed to lean back onto the tailpipe of his motorcycle - the motorcycle he'd just ridden home from work five minutes before. I danced around yelling most of last night, grabbing anything cool and smooshing it to the back of my leg. I'm sure I was very popular with the waiters who had to clean up the pool of melted ice cubes under my dinner chair, and Ed's friend who found partially defrosted green beans in his sink.

This morning I read up on burns, and apparently the best thing I can do is leave the blister in place for as long as possible, since my body has created a sterile environment behind the blister for my skin to heal. Which makes sense, but it's so, so gross. I just want to pop it. It'll be such a gratifying ooze, I know it.

As I pointed out to Ed, this is all his fault. Ed feels about leg stubble the way most people feel about boogers; it grosses him out, so I make the wifely sacrifice of shaving every week or two. I know, I know, he doesn't deserve me. Yesterday was a shaving day only because he whined that braiding leg hair is grounds for divorce. Without him I would have had a nice coat of leg fur to insulate me from rogue tailpipes.

And because it's his fault I got burned, I get complaining privileges. I'm taking full advantage.

Rednecks

My scooter turned 500 miles earlier this week, and I was giving it a pat on the seat for being such a good boy when a motorcycle pulled up next to me at the stoplight. It was a big bike with a big bald guy and his skinny blonde girlfriend on the back, and I looked over with surprise. This guy broke one of the rules of etiquette of riding; unless we were riding "together," he should have stayed well back from me, giving me as much space as he'd give a car. Coming up in my lane next to me is something I reserve for my husband's bike. The nerve.

Nervy guy says with a grin, "Wanna race?"

Haha, buddy. We all know what your bike is compensating for. I smile gently and say "no," though secretly I know that for the first few seconds, at least, my Scoot would smoke him. I don't have to lay off the gas to shift, and Scoot is peppy. I'd be halfway down the block before Nervy and Blondie got their weight out from under them. I grin at the thought.

Nervy sees my grin and thinks we're friends. He leans in to tell me, "You know you don't have to wear a helmet in Texas, right?" He says this with the air of someone telling me an amazing secret that I'll be glad to hear, like "You know they're giving away free margaritas at Boudro's, right?"

I just look at him. Yeah, neither of them are wearing helmets, which isn't unusual in Texas, but are they really assuming I don't know I could use my head as a watermelon if I chose? That I'll stop wearing one since I don't have to wear it? Nervy keeps talking, "We've asked a bunch of people, it's true!" He's excited as a kid.

The light turns green and I wave my gloved and padded hand towards the road. "Go ahead." And as they pull in front of me I see the license tags. West Virginia.

Some stereotypes have followed me.