At least I got a break from the chairs.

My wife and our 24-year-old daughter Emma recently decided we needed to order a new table and chairs for our outdoor patio.

My wife and Emma spent several weeks going back on forth on which table and chairs they should get. They discussed style, they discussed size, they discussed color and they even discussed price.

Meanwhile, I sat on our three-season porch watched baseball and drank beer.

Hey, I’m a firm believer in playing to your strengths.

However, had I been more aware of the table and chairs discussion I might have asked one teeny, tiny but very important question.

“Will we have to assemble them?”

But I didn’t so I’m guessing what happened later is on me.

About a week after my wife and Emma agreed on which table and chairs to order a large box arrived.

“This doesn’t look too bad,” I said to myself as I looked at the lone box.

“What an idiot,” myself said.

That’s when I noticed a note on the side of the box that said it was one of four to be delivered.

“Oh,” I said to myself.

“Told you,” myself said.

Sometimes I hate myself.

On Friday, after the other three boxes arrived, my wife and I went outside to put the table and chairs together.

After about an hour we had the table assembled.

“Whoa this is easy,” I said to myself. “We’ll be done in no time.”

Myself said, “You just keep thinking Mike. That’s what you’re good at.”

I sensed sarcasm.

My wife and I figured since we got the table put together in an hour the chairs would take no time at all.

Three hours later we had two chairs assembled.

See, the problem was every chair had at least one – sometimes three – holes that wouldn’t line up correctly with the other holes which tended to slow the assembly process.

How hard was it to put the chairs together, you ask?

My wife ran out of swear words.

We have been married for more than 30 years and until Friday my wife had never run out of swear words.

On Saturday afternoon, after my wife announced she wasn’t going anywhere near those “@%&*@%#*$&ING CHAIRS FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE,” I went out to work on them.

By the way, as you can tell, my wife got her vocabulary back.

Two hours later, after getting one and a half chairs put together, I suggested we take a break from our worldly troubles and go drown our sorrows in a bottle of wine at Andrew and Amanda Penningtion’s Winery just east of town.

So we did. But only after I promised my wife I would put the final four and a half chairs together on Sunday.

Early Sunday afternoon I started to walk outside to work on the chairs. As I got near the door to our patio, I noticed a pair of gloves I use when I grill outside and a steak knife that goes with a set we keep on the patio. Wanting to kill more than one bird with just one stone, I picked up the gloves, placed the steak knife on top of them and went outside. When I got outside, I tossed the gloves onto the counter on our patio.

That’s when I remembered the steak knife.

Well, not exactly at that moment. It was half a second later when I felt the steak knife hit my l lower leg and looked down to see blood running down my leg when I remembered the steak knife.

“Oh there it is,” I said to myself.

Myself just shook his head.

I limped to the door and asked my wife to bring me a paper towel and a Band-Aid.

“What did you do?” my wife said.

“Nothing,” I said. “I just need a Band-Aid.”

My wife walked over, took a look at my leg and said “You’re going to the emergency room. You need stiches.”

“I do not,” I said. “I’m fine. I’m not going anywhere.’

About an hour later a very nice nurse and a very nice physicians’ assistant were putting two stiches in my leg.

By the way, here’s something fun to do. Try to explain to a very nice nurse and very nice physicians’ assistant how you managed to stab yourself in the leg with a steak knife and watch them try not to laugh at you.

It’s sort of fun.

Of course my wife took the whole thing like an adult and did not try and turn my woes into some sort of moral victory for her. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA, sometimes I kill myself.

“See, I told you so. You needed stiches,” is what my wife said.

I pointed out that my wife was barely right.

“I was close to only needing one which would have meant I got  ‘stich’ not ‘stiches’.”

“You’re an idiot,” my wife said.

“I’ve heard that before,” I said.

Want to know the worst part?

Mike, some of you are wondering, what could be worse than dropping a steak knife on your leg, having to get stiches and listening to your wife say “I told you so,”?

To some of you wondering that I can only say: This wasn’t the first time something like this happened.

“Oh, that is worse,” some of you are saying.

It was about four years ago; I was slicing flank steak in our kitchen when I dropped the knife I was using on my foot.

When my wife saw my foot she said, “You’re going to the emergency room. You need stiches.

“I do not,” I said. “I’m fine. I’m not going anywhere.”

About an hour later a nice nurse and doctor put five stiches in my foot.

“See, I told you so,” my wife said.

Sigh.

On the bright side I got to spend the rest of my Sunday sitting in a chair drinking beer and watching baseball.

And the chairs?

Well, as my wife would say, “#^@$ THE %&@# CHAIRS.”