Saturday, in a burst of productivity, I decided to hang a few of the pictures we had up around the old apartment. Heaven forbid I actually, you know, unpack one of the bazillion boxes that we have lying around. Mack is going to be taking a business trip soon and, in my infinite wisdom, I decided that I would unpack some boxes while Mack is away. 

A few years ago (before we started dating), Mack bought a bunch of Amy Brown prints which he matted and framed. Before we moved in together, they were stored in his spare bedroom, on his work bench, gathering dust. Upon moving in together, I suggested to Mack that perhaps we actually hang them up in our bedroom since 1) they are beautiful prints and 2) that way my Beatles posters could go up in the spare bedroom (the office) without him bitching about it. 

Compromise: we do it occasionally.

Since the last time I hung up a picture in our apartment, I ended up breaking the fish tank filter and am not too good with the whole hanging up pictures straight (look at the corner of our bedroom where two of the prints ended up; there are about 10 holes in there from me attempting to make them level) I asked Mack to hang them up. I figured this would save us the headache in the long run.

Course, I hadn’t counted on another kind of headache that would happen. 

While Mack was standing on our bed, which is, oh, tall enough where we only have to sit up in bed to pull the chord to turn off the lamp, he kind of leaned back upon getting the second picture hung. I think now is as good a time to mention that we do have a ceiling fan attached to said lamp. This is extremely relevant to the next part of the story.

Next thing I know, from my perch safe on the ground, I hear a loud THUNK followed by a “FUCK” as Mack quickly leans forward grabbing at his head. I freak out (naturally) and am all “OMGAREYOUOKAY!?!?!” worrying perhaps a huge chunk of brain was going to come flying at me or something equally gross. I mean, I was there when Mack slammed his finger in the car door and almost popped his nail off.

Um, ew.

I don’t DO nasty gross gore. I’m sorry, but the chances of me throwing up all over you are better than those of me being of any use to you, in a gore-related emergency.

Luckily, there was no major damage done to Mack, other than, obviously, getting whacked in the head by the fan going at full speed. Once I realized there was no blood or gore, I turned into the concerned “nurse” and got him aspirin (although he had no headache considering the BLUNT FORCE TRAMA TO HIS HEAD) and hovered in an irritating fashion. 

The most that came out of the accident? A scratch on his head where the big bump used to be. The sad part, ultimately, I think, was that if that had happened to me, my whole forehead would be black and blue and out of commission for weeks.