What’s your nose doing in the waste basket?

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modern-wastebaskets

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This might be called an ode to fate or, just a humorous, poorly timed event — for me, just 10 days after a shoulder replacement, when I was totally drugged-out, barely remembering my own name.  Everyone was assuming I was quietly in bed.  I wasn’t.   

MY WIFE TO OUR DAUGHTER:    Get up! your father just fell in the wastsbasket

ANS:   ? Should I put pants on?

WIFE:    Of course, you put your pants on!

WIFE (turning to me):    Now, husband, what is your nose doing in the waste basket?

ME (drugged out):   “Oh, “I was just looking around.”

A little background.  I had been warned:  “Whatever you do, don’t fall . . . if you do, protect that shoulder!”  So, I did.  As I tried to retrieve my glasses from the bedside drawer, my feet slipped on the carpet and over I went, face down between the bed and wall, my face looking into the wastebasket!  Like a falling drunk I protected my body; but I was stuck!  The new right shoulder was unharmed in its giant sling, my forehead rested on the bedside table,  my good left shoulder and arm were, to the diminishment of my ego, trapped in the wastebasket.

My wife seemed most concerned about my rather beautiful, large nose which rested in the open drawer (whence were my glasses). In my drug-induced flailing I had protected my nose, my shoulder — and still had my glasses!

All turned out well —  the next evening we laughed uproariously at this comedy.

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