Medic!

The b'day card that caused "the incident"

Some birthdays require medical attention.  Take the bro's.  Yesterday, we're riding in my luxury vehicle, heading toward Robin's house.  The three of us will lunch like important peeps as we celebrate the wonder that is John.  En route, he drops the b'day card I just gave him between the center thingy and the seat.  He starts fishing around for it.  "Don't worry about it, we'll get it later," I say.  He stops fishing.  I have that kind of power over him. Always have. We pull up to Robin's gorgeous home and sigh.  He starts fishing for the card again, working his arm in such a treacherous way that I'm sure it's going to get stuck and we'll have to call Triple A to remove him and the seat.  It's going to be an incident, with neighbors popping by to gawk, maybe a news truck or two.  I eye myself in the rearview mirror.  I'm so not ready for my close-up.  This is going to be bad.  But no, relax, it's all good.  John rescues the card from under-the-seat oblivion and feels damn good about it, damn proud.  "Yay," I say.  Robin greets us at the door with a beauty queen wave.  "How nice to see you both," she says, sounding very British, very noble.  We exchange air kisses and full-body hugs and walk down the street toward the quaint French restaurant.  You heard me.  We actually set off on foot to hunt down a nice salad.  Half-way down the street, John makes a shocking declaration.  "I'm bleeding."  I look at him and sure enough, he's injured, his hand sliced open -- it's more a cut than a deep gash, but for dramatic purposes, let's call it a life-threatening wound -- with blood gushing upon his cashmere sweater.  "Oy vey," I say.  Robin loses her former sorority gal composure and swears like a truck driver.  We go back to her house to mend the birthday boy.  Naturally, I'm tempted to berate him, as only a little sister can: "I told you not to bother with the eff'n card, now look what happened!" But I've had way too much therapy to intentionally belittle a loved one.  I keep my mouth shut.  Inside Robin's kitchen, we administer medical attention and I save his sweater, dabbing and blotting away the blood like a Jewish Heloise.  Robin loans John one of her famous hubby's designer shirts and suddenly, the bro' looks reborn and ready to party hard on his own behalf.  Happy b'day, hon.  Next year, I'm sending you an e-card.  Much safer.