The ICE Man Commeth

COLD RUSH! My new master

My wife broke her elbow.  She slipped on the stairs last Saturday and BLAM!  The thing fractured in three places and required orthopedic surgery two days ago.
This has sort of turned into a Groundhog Day experience for both of us.  You do remember the movie that featured Bill Murray as a TV weatherman who keeps having the same day happen to him over and over again?  Well, about five years ago Linda tripped on a curb at the corner of 1st Street and 2nd Avenue on Manhattan's Lower East Side and broke her wrist in enough places to earn her a date with a Beth Israel orthopedic surgeon.  That hospital sent her home with a cast that almost required its own plane ticket.  It was the size of a big screen TV circa 1986.  New York to San Diego was three-thousand miles of hilarity.

So here we are again recovering from an unfortunate pratfall that finds me being "directed" by an injured "you know who" in the proper technique for loading the dishwasher, making the bed, and handling various policing details that mom never 'splained to me.  Another responsibility with which I have been charged is ice monitor.  Every couple of hours I am required to re-load the Cold Rush machine that came as a "lovely parting gift" from the good doctor who repaired the busted elbow.  This monstrosity is hooked up to Linda's injured wing ALL day and ALL night.  When I first eyeballed this icy behemoth in the recovery room I thought it was hospital property, but, NO, the nurse informed me that this little beauty was going home with us to make sure that the arm heals nicely.  This was all carefully explained when it became apparent to the nurse that my only frame of reference regarding the use of ice had come from bartenders.

  Naturally our place is in chaos and, also naturally, it's my fault.  Left to my own devices I would never make a bed or hang up clothing.  The Salvation Army would be in receipt of all our knives, forks, spoons and plates as I made the intelligent switch to all paper plates and plastic utensils  (in case an item not easily eaten by hand was accidentally purchased). Beverages not in disposable cans or bottles would have NO place under my management system.

Alas, I am not in charge.  On Monday the doctor will let me know how much longer I'll be an ICE slave.  As it stands now I am already days ahead of our refrigerator ice maker's output--something that hasn't happened since I gave up the sauce--and the checkout gals at our neighborhood grocery store are starting to ask "where's the party?"  as they scan another couple of jumbo bags of ice for me.

Oops.  You'll have to excuse me.  My injured mistress of disclipline is requesting my presence at her lecture on the proper folding of sheets.  I wonder if maybe dropping about a pint of vodka into that cold rush machine might put her in a more relaxed state of mind?  It's a shame to waste all that ice.