This morning had Marilee and I off to yet another eye appointment for me - a followup to my laser surgery for my left eye last Friday, and the surgery for my right eye today.
Everything went well, particularly since I didn't pass out this time.
When we'd gotten to the parking lot, there was one spot right near the door; at that moment, it hit me that...
"Hey! Maybe we can get a handicapped license plate!"
"I don't think you qualify for that... yet."
"I meant for you."
<crickets>
"...for putting up with me."
Talk about suddenly being put at ease with the impending doom of another surgery.
Later this afternoon, she turns to me and asks "What are we gonna do tomorrow?"
I'm slowly getting used to these questions, though only four days into my sabbatical, I'm starting to run out of ideas.
"...and are you going to be "normal Bob" or..."
She trailed off at that point, leaving it up to me to fill in the blanks.
"How many words?"
"Four."
"But asshole is one word."
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