Jeremy has been complaining of chest pain, tightness and pressure for the last four months, but being a guy, he just hasn't been able to gather enough courage to visit the doctor. I'm not sure why that is. He regularly conquers stuck pickle jar lids, grumbling car engines, lagging budgets, scraped knees, and all of my amorous pursuers, but nice doctors who can help are not on his resume. (Spiders aren't either, but that's okay; I can handle spiders myself. It's the crickets that I need his manly shoe for.)

Of course, his visit in 2007 to the emergency room in our Iowa hometown for more acute chest symptoms did not inspire him to return to an ER any time soon.

Finally, last night around midnight, he became uncomfortable enough that he could not sleep, so we decided to visit the emergency room here -- you know, just to see how they've chosen to decorate it.

It was lovely. Beautiful deep blue chairs with curving rich wooden arms.

Oh, sorry.

Long story short (I'm famous for the shortness of my stories, you know. Just ask my parents whose favorite phrase for me when I was growing up was, "Get to the point, Missy!")

(How boring.)

Anyway, long story short, Jeremy was not having a heart attack. He has nothing wrong with his heart at all! Instead, he's been suffering from a viral version of pleurisy. The doctor prescribed a heavy dose of Motrin for about a week, and voila! Perfectly healthy husband!

Hooray!

Plus, we got a wonderful, late-night date from it. To celebrate his relatively clean bill of health, Jeremy and I shared a cardboard container of Arby's curly fries around 3:30 in the morning.

And a side of heartburn. Appropriate for the occasion, I suppose.