Blood, sweat and tea towels

I'm going to start with the moral of the story:

Don't let my husband do housework.

It all began on a happy, sunshine filled day (I lie. I felt like crap and it was overcast. Again. 9 degrees outside) I left the house cranky, because it was a laundry-filled, feral-fest! I grunted at my husband - who has the man flu, and walked out with Mr cute butt.

We visited his Nanna and Poppy and had a lovely time. On the way back into town, I had jobs to do. I was on the phone to my attractive, intelligent sister in-law and I kept getting missed calls from Marty. I finally gave in and hung up, to contact him. I assumed he wanted take away for dinner.

I got this text message:

I have cut my hand open on the fan.

Then another:

Come home. I think I need stitches.

I frantically rang him, thinking he was dying. Of course he answers the phone cheerily and says "It's fine! Just a little blood. You should look at it though."

I drove down the driveway and was greeted by my blood covered husband, holding frozen peas against his right hand. Smiling. Yes, smiling. Freak. I immediately told him to get in the car and I dropped him at the emergency entrance. (Personally, I wouldn't have put frozen peas on a cut, but whatever!)

Eli and I went home, because it can be a long wait and he needed dinner.

I walked into the house.

I saw washing baskets and I smiled. He'd been folding!

Then I saw blood spatter on the walls.

On the clothes.

On the floor.

On the fan.

FAR OUT. Seriously?

He couldn't wipe any of that up?

He knocks on the door, 20 minutes later. Had run home. Cause, that's what you do when you've just gotten stitches.

"I didn't even have local anesthetic!"

*insert Peter Griffin sigh*

Love that man o' mine!