Good News, Bad News

I spent the better part of the morning chilling with some charming elderly folks. From the sound of it, I was hanging out at the retirement center, catching up on the latest hip replacement gossip or learning what foods promote healthy bowel movements. But no, I was waiting in line to see the podiatrist for what we all feared might be gout ... the old man disease. One horrifying step away from orthopedic shoes.

My aunt Eunice has these.

I climb on an elevator heavily saturated with eau de geriatric, and smile at the lovely couple standing beside me. The man is holding his wife's wrinkled hand, and I can't help but wonder what it's like to be married for 60 years. I smile and wink as we disembark only to realize no one was actually looking at me; there was a glass eye involved.

Disturbed but determined, I slog through the phlegmy coughs in the waiting room and find my place in the exam room. 7 forms later, it's my chance to explain my inexplicable toe issues to the nurse. She stares at me like I'm offering an explanation in Klingon, because no, I don't know how I hurt it or why it's continuing to cause problems. That's why I'm here.
She whips out a big blue chux pad and begins to unfold it, all the while I start sweating in the corner. The last time I saw one of those, I was giving birth. I'm instructed to remove my sock and shoe. The doctor will be in shortly.

Mr. Doctor comes in, and we rehash the story I've told Ms. Nurse, only now I'm slightly off kilter and mumbly because I expect his reaction will mimic hers. Much to my delight, he smiles and nods enthusiastically. Now I fear I'm losing the toe, and he's just trying to put on a good face. Mr. Doctor asks about conditions completely unrelated to wonky toe, reinforcing my horrifying notion.

At lease he has a sense of humor. That
ought to go far on his eHarmony
post.

He lifts my foot and props it on his knee, telling me to relax it. My heart is little racey at this point as it looks like we're going to begin a sadistic game of This Little Piggy. Mr. Doctor wiggles and turns wonky toe, but there's no rhyming to his questions, so I relax. Lots of flinching later, he comes to one conclusion.




Good News: No gout! Whoot! Goodbye lifetime prescription to maintain my uric acid levels!

Bad News: I have an inexplicably wonky toe.

On the bright side, Mr. Doctor thinks it's something we can deal with, and it hasn't left any irreparable damage. Still, there's something depressing about being the only patient in the office who still has their real teeth. Meaning I have my real teeth, not the office. I'd have to be old to leave those behind.

In all seriousness, the elderly are awesome! Here's to old people full of wisdom and interesting stories!

Courtesy LG TopangaFilmFestival

Slightly Abused Mailbox 'For Sale.' Only Ran Over Once.

You're doing it wrong...

Let's go back to the beginning.

So, my wonderful husband whom I love dearly borrowed his bro-mance's boat the other day. For whatever reason, he decided to pull it out of the driveway just enough to tinker with something in the back. Our drive, like most, has a dip at the entrance so water runs away from the house. Nice in the sense that your yard doesn't flood. Not-so-nice in the sense that it makes for a heck of a bump when your unsecured trailer hits it.

Yeah. Renegade boat coming right up.

I hear my guard dogs (realistically a yorkie and a mixed breed deemed a Franken-weenie) barking like someone's throwing steak balls at the front door, and they can't get to them. After several failed attempts at calling them, I wander to the front door.

Lo and behold, there's a boat in my yard, my husband futilely pushing against the hull, our SUV is in the middle of the road, and the mailbox ... well, I feared the worst for old Rusty.

I open the door and calmly ask, "Do you want some help?"

"YES!" Matt huffs, the giant vein popping in his neck.

"Be specific. What do you need?" I asked.

I think he mentally slapped me at this point, but I can't actually prove that.

Now then, our house is the last before the street takes a Niagara-esque plunge on down into the neighborhood.This might be an absoultely horrifying-slash-morbidly entertaining problem except we have a home-owners association, and they specifically prohibit fun. They're like Nazis but with well-manicured lawns.

"What does that have to do with the price of eggs?" 

It means we have imposed rules of no 2x4-in-the-ground-as-your-mailbox-post. For once, the HOA has thought of something beneficial. The decorative kryptonite rod that serves as the post stopped our runaway boat.

Needless to say, the DH left on his trip, abandoning me with only a mail-bucket. A week later, it isn't necessarily better but it is more functional, and I think the mailman stopped leaving threatening messages. ...okay, that last part I made. He didn't really stop. Kidding.

Yeah, I Could Shoot like a Champ.

This should say "Chupacabra Crossing"

So, I was sitting on the couch the other day, watching deer hunting with the DH ... yeah, we live in KY. Anyway, he has this insatiable obsession with me going with him one day like I'm going to fall in love with slaying furry animals and want to hang their taxidermy'd carcasses on my wall. He keeps asking me to wear camo and offering to buy me a rifle. I think it's his inner redneck breaking to the surface. Clearly, I haven't beaten it down enough, but I fear if I do, we won't have meat this winter. And let's face it, deer meat is delicious!

Ultimately, our banter goes a little something like this...

Matt -- You should really go hunting with me sometime.

me -- I don't like to kill things. Why would I do that?

Matt -- You want to go alligator hunting.

me -- Well, yeah, that would be awesome. But you can't cuddle an alligator. It's less like an animal.

Matt -- You can't cuddle a deer.

me -- Sure you can. You're just not trying hard enough.

Matt -- ::silence:: ...I'll bet you'd be good at it though. Or bird hunting. You're death on birds. Remember all of those babies you tried to save from the neighbor's cat when we first got married? They all died, and you didn't even have to try.

me -- ::angry eyes:: You suck at convincing people of things. How is it you're good at your job?

Matt: I'm just saying you'd be awesome at it.

me -- This is probably true. You know how I stumble into good luck. I'd probably end up shooting a chupacabra or something. Then we could be on the news for something non-meth related ... not that we've been on the news for meth, but the state of Kentucky in general. It'd put us back on the map.

Matt: ::long pause::You're not right...

And that's an accurate assumption. I may not be right, but I'm happy and not covered in camo face paint. So there.