Too-too-tootsie

I know you can barely sleep at night not knowing the outcome of my visit to the podiatrist, so here you go!  

But, before we begin, I want to share some BIG news: I am getting OB Ultra Tampons from a friend in Chicago!  This Book-de-la-Face friend found five or six boxes of these puppies at a local store and she purchased them for me.  If she were smart, she'd sell them on eBay and screw me. But, she--a childhood friend whom I hadn't seen since high school/ran into at our 30th class reunion last summer--saw the tampons, bought the entire lot and then sent me a message.  She said she had been on a quest to find me some of o.b.s in the purple box.  Who says social networking is a waste of time?


Also: Gaga in three days.  People, get ready.  Don't be a drag.  Just be a queen!

Back to the podiatrist story: Armed with photos of my bruised, swollen fifth metatarsal (who the hell takes pictures of their feet?) and a set of clean, well-lotioned feet, I headed to my appointment.


I must say, going to a specialist in a fancy building with fancy equipment with an actual appointment is much more fun than going to a walk in clinic during a blizzard.  Once in the building, mouth agape, I was greeted by what I would consider a refreshingly gay-friendly receptionist.  When I answered her questions and gave my emergency contact information, she asked, "Would that be your partner?" Are you kidding me? I've never been asked that by any medical professional before.  And, so nonchalant.  Made me all tingly.

I was beginning to think I might actually like bringing my ugly feet here.

From there, it only got better. Uber-polite medical staff, decked out in fabulous wardrobes; expensive, newer-than-not walk-up x-ray machine; clean, brightly light exam rooms.  (You would think that last one would be a given, but it's not.)  Computers with big-ass monitors.  Did I mention they were digital x-rays? You would think that would be a given in today's age, too--but, not so much.  It was delicious!

The nurse comes in and starts asking questions--but, only after introducing herself and addressing me with all sorts of niceties.  How inviting and welcoming!  I was beginning not to care at all about my foot.  I took off my shoe and sock as directed and then handed her the photos.  Oh my, those photos were a BIG hit!  I tried to explain why the hell I had photos of my foot, but she assured me it was wonderful. We had a pretty good laugh about them.  She was quite puzzled how I could end up looking like "this" without an injury or bite, but she didn't mutter anything remotely condescending about hurting myself while going to the bathroom in the middle of the night and not remembering it.

Next, the doctor enters.  She is pleasant and appropriately chatty, decked out in her white lab coat and stylish earrings.  She exclaims her delight for my photos. No stupid questions--just delightful questioning and answering about my foot.

I am beginning to like my feet more and more. She pokes and prods my foot, smooshing the pad on my foot by the pinky toe.  "Yes, that feels like a bursa.  You might have a burst bursa."  Okay, I get that.

Her line of questioning took a turn away from bursa to gout.....

But, isn't gout for old, drunk men?  What 48 year old healthy female vegetarian who doesn't drink gets gout? I listen closely.  Gout?


Dr. Tootsie: "Have you ever been diagnosed with gout?"'

Me: (surprised look on face) "No!"
Dr. Tootsie: "Developed suddenly and was throbbing?"

Me: "Yes!" I am intrigued.
Dr. Tootsie: "Was it hot to the touch?  Did it hurt enough that even the bed sheet was painful?"

Me: "Come to think of it, I was hanging my foot out from the bedsheets."

Dr. Tootsie: "Are you on the Atkins or other high protein diet?"

Me: (Laughs) "No,  I'm a vegetarian!"
Dr. Tootsie:  "Have you been dehydrated?"
Me: (contemplative) "Hmmmm. That'd be more likely than a high protein diet."

Dr. Tootsie gave me a rudimentary-but-not-even-close-to-condescending education on gout.  "When you think of gout, you probably think of some drunk old man."
Me: "You know, the one person I know who had gout WAS literally a drunk old man!"

So, the official result was a diagnosis of bursitis with a rule-out of gout.  If I ever have the same symptom, I am immediately to skee-daddle right back to her office.   Yum!

As for the gout, I've been doing research on line, just in case it turns out to be the issue. I learned in one study that low thyroid levels are linked with gout....and, since every female on the maternal side of my family has some form of thyroid issue (I'm not kidding here) and I have a delicious goiter with all sorts of thyroid nonsense, this is something to consider.  As for treatment? According to the more-famous medical sites, I'm supposed to avoid alcohol (check), not eat anchovies and other little fishies (no problem), stay away from meat, especially organ meat (gag and a check), eat enough carbs (okay, my entire life is one big carb), avoid legumes (uh-oh, this is a problem), say no to mushrooms, spinach, asparagus, cauliflower (wait a minute!) and stay away from fatty foods such as ice cream (HELL NO!). 

I vote I do not have gout.  But, if my spontaneous, painful, unexplainable swelling should return, I know exactly what to do: I am going to get in my car and go to this wonderful medical practice and seek out this foot doctor and I am going to pee in a cup so she can check my uric acid level.  

Until then, I am going to keep eating ice cream......and, I'm gonna avoid alcohol, meat and doctors at walk-in clinics during blizzards.

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There's No Business Like Toe Business

This will have to be down and dirty, boys and girls, as time is of the essence--this is just a teaser until Friday night or Saturday morning.  Tomorrow, I take my sad little piggy (remember those photos from back on February 2nd?) to a podiatrist.  This is a huge leap for me as (1) I really do NOT like feet; and, (2) I really do NOT like feet.  I am waving the white flag as my foot/toe/whatever still troubles me.  I am sure to have LOTS to say about this after I see the doctor.  I'm sure she'll say I had an injury that I don't remember; as long as she doesn't say I had an injury in the middle of the night when going to the bathroom and just don't remember it, all will be fine.  Just giving information to the receptionist/whatever-her-job-title-might-be information on the issue was humorous.  They want to know about all my broken bones.  After listing all of them, she asks, "where you in a terrible car wreck?"  And, I answered, "No--I'm just a lousy softball player."  

I was held hostage for 13 minutes during her rapid-fire questioning about my general health. She finally got to the reason I am seeking a podiatrist and wanted to know about the issue: "Is it an injury?" 
Me: "I don't know."
Lady: "Have you seen a doctor for this?
Me: "Yes.  On February 2nd, at a walk in clinic." 
Lady: "What was the diagnosis?"
Me: "I don't know."
Lady: "Oh, you don't remember what they said?"
Me: "No, I remember quite clearly--the doctor's literal diagnosis was I don't know."

And so, the hilarity began--a kind of "Who's on First?" happening.

I can't wait for tomorrow, as there is no business like toe business.  I tremble at the thought of someone spending an entire examination staring at my feet. Photos sure to follow.

Bling Bling....New Ring!

I think the Universe has sent me the most delicious message.....

Yesterday, while seated at my desk, I (for no known reason) took my diamond ring off my hand and took a close look at it.  I remember thinking to myself, "man, you are REALLY hard on your jewelry."  The band was all knicked and dented and in need of cleaning.  Although the band looked like it had been through the war, the diamonds looked fabulous, sparkly and happy.  I took a long gander at them.  Everything looked fine.  I love diamonds.


I really have no idea what made me look at that ring, because I don't usually look at it.  Since I never take it off--not for showers, not for gardening, not for bed, not for anything but surgery, x-rays and Reiki--I don't notice it much.  It's just a part of me.  On this day, I noticed it and really took a close look at it.  I even thought about how I should probably have it professionally cleaned, which is a thought I can't say I have very often (if ever).

So, today while seated at my desk, I (for no known reason) looked down at my ring.  It immediately caught my eye....something looked wrong.....

Why, my ring looked like it was missing a tooth! A smile of a six year old, missing her upper right front tooth....what the?

Lo and behold, a diamond was missing.  Freak.me.out.


How is it that for twenty nine zillion months in a row I don't look at my ring and on the one day that I do, the diamond falls out within a half a day?

I probably should have thought about this.  The Universe was probably all happy that I was paying attention when it tried to get me to look at the ring, to get me to think, "HEY! LOOK AT THE DAMN RING! You've got a loose diamond there!"

Imagine the Universe's dismay when I didn't get the full message it had intended to deliver.  "NO, NO!  KEEP LOOKING! YOU'RE SO CLOSE! NO! Don't go back to work!  Right there! Right there--AAAARRRRRG, YOU ARE LOOKING RIGHT AT IT! Oh no.  No, she didn't get the picture.  Oh, no no no."

Some people might be all upset about this.  I mean, diamonds ARE a girl's best friend and I had just lost one of my best friends.  Some might get mad or angry. Some might cry.  Some people might think about how they are going to fix the ring. Some might search frantically for the missing diamond, while others might run in circles and go get drunk.

Me?  I took it as a sign from the Universe....

bling bling!...time for a new ring!!!!

How can you not love the Universe?

A new ring is not technically in the budget, but when WOULD a new ring in the budget? Not very often, I'm guessing. Well, I am going to dream of bling bling, new ring! Getting a new ring is one step better than wearing my class ring all those months.  And, it's perfect timing for that upcoming civil union.  I'm thinking it's kinda weird that I buy my own ring, but I want to buy my own ring and I'm the one that lost the diamond and the wife is busy paying for things like acupuncture and ibuprofen, so I am all good with this ring buying thing.  The question is: what to buy?

Since I am so hard on jewelry, I have to take this into consideration.  I'm not gonna be getting anything very dainty.  My first thought is to stick with the metal of my "other hand's ring:" tungsten.  I'm telling you what--you CANNOT destroy tungsten.  I've literally scratched dents into walls with that puppy and there is nary a scratch on it.  It's heavy, it's shiny, it can harm people, I can't damage it.  Of course, I have to take it off when I go through metal detectors, but other than that, there are no drawbacks.  Well, tungsten isn't very romantic.  It is definitely not feminine.  It is not a straight girl favorite, I am sure.  Still......

But, what about the diamonds?  I want and need and covet diamonds.  (Who knew I was such a material girl?)  I want diamonds.  Diamonds in a setting that won't bend, break, loosen, crack. I'd suggest cubic zirconium but MJagger would explode at that thought--MJagger is NOT going to let a friend sport CZ when real diamonds can be had.

Hey, I'm having a thought--what about tungsten with cubic zirconium?

I think I just heard MJagger's head explode.

So, while the wife is limping through stores today looking for some new shoes, I be glancing at the jewelry counters.  I'm not in a hurry, so it will be casual perusing of glittery things.  Yum!  Bling Bling......new ring!

Did I mention how much I love the Universe?

Don't be a drag. Just be a Queen.

I was going to write about the wife's virginal encounter with acupuncture, but I am torn because I'm not sure how I can NOT write about Lady Gaga arriving in an egg at the Grammys.  (Egg, vessel, whatever--it looked like an egg to me.)   I'm going to a Lady Gaga concert in less than 12 days, so Gaga trumps the wife's second chakra.  Besides, the wife is now standing upright and able to take more than five steps in a row without making primal scream noises, so she can wait.

In case you were in a cave on Sunday or were on a three-day binge: Lady Gaga arrived at the Grammys in an egg-like container, as sashayed down the red carpet by scantily clad human beings with pointy things stuck to/in their foreheads.  (Note to nieces: do NOT get devil horn body modification implants in your forehead--it will dampen your job prospectives).  I am not going to relive the stories of the egg or preparation for egg-dom, as there are a billion stories out there waiting for your Googling.  For instance, you can go to the Huffington Post and get stories, video and photos all in one shot:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/02/13/lady-gaga-egg-grammy-arrival_n_822625.html


I personally thought the whole egg thing was genius.  I mean, wouldn't it be really awesome to arrive at work via an egg carried by four scantily clad beings?  Imagine your arrival: "Hey, here comes Addi Warrior Princess? Is she in an egg again? I hope she didn't forget the donuts this time.  HEY! GET YOUR EGG OUTTA MY PARKING SPACE!"

Genius.

Even more genius (genius squared) was Gaga's pre-Grammy interview on "60 Minutes."  I'm sure you can find the interview with Anderson Cooper on Tube-You (it's worth it, but I'm a Gaga whore, so I'm no judge); if you don't have time for that nonsense, you can read what it was all about in various corners of the internet, such as at http://www.mtv.com/news/articles/1657850/lady-gaga-smokes-pot-60-minutes.jhtml

Wouldn't it be awesome to arrive at work with nary a piece of clothing to be found? You throw on a few pieces of undergarments or rubber glove parts or some skin-colored body suit, get out of your egg, sigh, and then matter-of-factly exclaim, "I just didn't feel like wearing clothes today."

How can you not love this stuff?

For the record, I don't really care that Ms. Gaga smokes weed and drinks whiskey when she's writing music.  I don't care that she drops fake diamonds into her morning coffee. Like all the good little monsters of the world, I embrace her the way she is, pointy shoulders and all.  All I really care about is knowing if Gaga was in the egg for 72 consecutive hours or "just" a total of 72 hours.  I mean, a girl's gotta poop sometime.

So many egg questions.  Did she wear the same clothes for 72 hours? Did she smell after being in an egg for 72 hours? What did she do in there? Was she channeling David Blaine? Where'd she get that egg, anyways? Who makes an egg like that? It's not like you can look up "Egg Transporter" in the Yellow Pages. Did she go to the bathroom before exiting the egg to dance on the Grammys? How can you dance like that if you have to pee? How did she brush her teeth?  Did she brush her teeth? Show me your teeth, mama monster!

I'm not sure how I ever sleep, with questions like these always swirling in my brain.
 
Some people are not entertained at all by this. They don't find egg entrances interesting or artistic or whatever. Well, I am smitten with entertainment.  SMITTEN.

Haters, be gone!  Leave my Mama Monster alone!

As for the wife (who has NO questions about the Lady Gaga egg whatsoever), she went and had some acupuncture two days ago.  From what I see, it is a miracle of the Lord.  She is back to walking without a limp and sleeping without crying.  She doesn't squirm in pain when seated at the kitchen table for dinner.  While she isn't running marathons, she is back to cleaning things and pointing out all the things I didn't clean when she was down and out.  I take this as an awesome sign.  I have no idea how acupuncture works.  To be honest, I don't care if it's all placebo effect; as long as it helps the wife, I am all good with it.

I do know that although she is much improved, she is in no shape to be riding in an egg.

Seems the wife has a clogged second chakra.  It's never good to have a constipated second chakra--you are going to have to take my word for it.  A clogged second chakra is much more complicated than understanding a pop star in an egg. So, the wife needs some east-meets-west medicine.  A little energy balancing, a little icing, a little ibuprofen, a little stretching, a little meditation, a little acupuncture.

I think a little weed-smoking and whiskey drinking might also do the trick, but we're trying to keep the wife on the wagon here, so I think we'll skip the Gaga-esque-Sciatica-Cure.  It's acupuncture, no egg-riding, sobriety and lots of rest for the wife.

Me? I'm gonna go out and find me an egg.  After all, the concert is only 12 days away and I have to have some form of transportation......actually, I've got a bunch of eggs to spare....but, I don't think I can ride in any of them.....

 Maybe I'll sell my eggs and just drive to the concert the old fashioned way.  Two monster paws up for this egg-cellent idea!

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"I'm on the right track, baby--I was born this way!"
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Doing the Right Thing

I am so proud of our niece that I could just burst.

(Of course, I am proud of all our nieces.  It's just that for this story, I speak of Eldest Niece.)

Our three fabulous, talented nieces were bowling in the State Bowling Tournament Finals today. (That's kind of redundant--they wouldn't be bowling if it weren't a bowling tournament.)  What an amazing story--three sisters on one high school team.  Even more amazing: their mom (my sister) is one of the two coaches.  Three sisters bowling for one high school......

.....I thought that sounded pretty news-worthy--after all, how many times does one see three sisters on the same state tournament team? Alas, I have yet to see the story in print or on the news.  Of course, you are now reading about it in this blog, so at least that is a start.

Back to the point.

I was taking photos of the three nieces in front of the State Tournament Banner when a coach from another high school team approached me.  "Excuse me, are these your daughters?" 

I laughed and told them, "no, they are my nieces!  Here's the proud dad, tho."  I pointed to my brother-in-law,who happened to be standing next to me, taking some photos, too.

The coach pointed out Eldest niece and spoke to us of how she had fouled during her approach and had enough sportsmanship, enough honesty, enough integrity to report it.  The coach said, "no one saw that she fouled.  She threw a strike.  None of us knew.  But, she turned and reported that foul.  That is an amazing young woman.  I was so impressed I reported it to the officials.  She should be recognized for this." 

Let's think about that.  You are a high school senior in THE State bowling tournament.  You want to win so badly you can taste it.  You're going along, doing okay, keeping up with the pack.  You need every pin you can get. You know it's now or never. During the third game, you throw a strike...and foul on the approach....you turn, walk back.....and, alert the coaches & official of the foul on the approach.

No buzzers went off. 
No lights flashed. 
Nothing on the scoreboard showed. 
No one saw it. 
No one knows about it......

...but, you do.

Do you do the right thing and report it? Or, do you think, "no one saw that, so who cares?" 

Well, my sister and brother-in-law have raised some fine, upstanding young ladies and I'll tell you what Eldest Niece did: she did the right thing.

Eldest niece reported the foul.   

I want to thank that coach for noticing, for actually caring about sportsmanship, about recognizing Eldest Niece's honesty and subsequent action.  So often, coaches just want to win and to cut down their opponents, sportsmanship be damned.  I want to thank this coach for taking the time to seek out this bowler's parents and letting them know how impressed he was, for recognizing the integrity with which she had been raised. I want to thank him for giving her recognition.


You know the best part?  I know Eldest Niece didn't even have to think twice about it.  That makes me even prouder.


Now, for the rest of the story.....


...unfortunately, Eldest niece didn't make the cut for tomorrow's Singles Finals.  Although she hung in there, she was just shy of making the cut.  One of her teammates made it.  One of her friends made it.  She narrowly, oh so narrowly missed her ultimate goal.  

You know what she lost by?

You guessed it.


That strike.


That strike on which she fouled.

That strike on which she fouled and reported.

I am sure it absolutely, positively sucks to be her right now.  She burst into tears right after they read off the list of finalists and then announced the total pins that had determined the cut off.  She melted down right before our eyes. It is already hard enough to be a teenage.  It is awful to be a teenage girl in a bowling tournament (I swear there are girls crying everywhere at those things).  I am sure it is even worse by a billion-fold to do the right thing and then lose something because you did the right thing.


But, you know what say to her?

"You did the right thing. I am so proud of you. There is nothing more honorable than doing that.  You are a true winner.  You did what so many others would not have done.  I know you would have done the right thing even if you knew it would cost you something you wanted very dearly."

You know, I don't know if I would have done the right thing.  I am very much about sportsmanship; in fact, I put it in front of winning.  It makes the wife crazy.  (It makes anyone who has to be on my team crazy.  Don't even get me started about intramural volleyball in college!) I don't have that competitive-winning-is-everything gene.  I like to win, don't get me wrong.  I like to win a lot.  It's just that I don't want to win in an unsportsmanlike fashion.  I won an award in college for sportsmanship.  I won an award in high school for  sportsmanship-related behavior.  I take it seriously.  Even so.....

......I'm not sure I would be as big a person as my niece was today. I know I'd at least think, "if no one saw it, it's all good--I'm not saying a word."   I know I wish I could say definitively that I would do the right thing if faced with the same situation....but, I can't tell you that.


I am so very, very proud of her.  I get tearful just thinking about it!


And so, on this very painful day in a world of teenage angst, this awful day of hurt and tears, this day that probably feels like the end of the world, I tell her that doing the right thing is worth more than any trophy she could ever win.

Good job, nieces!  We ooze with love and pride for you.
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Of Titletown and Tattoos

Big shout out to my sister and my three nieces as they travel to the high school State Bowling tournament.  All four are on the team--obviously, my sister is the coach, not a high school bowler.  How awesome is that? I predict they will CRUSH the competition like bugs.  Good luck, lady Rams!
 
Well, now doesn't that blog title make it sound like people in Titletown are getting tattoos in honor of the Packer victory in Sunday's Super Bowl?  That wasn't my original intention--they are two different topics I wanted to include in one blog--but, turns out that this blog IS about Titletown, tattoos AND Titletown fans getting tattoos in honor of this illustrious occasion.  I was going to call it, "Titletown, Toes and Tattoos," but decided my healing toe didn't deserve top billing.

We were at Master Reiki and Blue Eyes house for the big "XLV" game.  A friend--who is a HUGE Packer fan--walked in the door for the big event and showed us her new tattoo--her first tattoo (and she is way over the age of 50--what was she waiting for???!!)--a personally-designed Super Bowl-themed ankle bracelet featuring the Packer Logo, the Steeler Logo, a football and the "XLV" for the year of the bowl.  Talk about gutsy!  Getting a tattoo BEFORE you know the outcome of the game is gutsy.  She was celebrating a Packer victory before the victory was said and done.  As the wife says, "that was pretty risky."

Trust me, our friend got a little nervous at times during the game, especially when the Steelers were marching down the field in the last few minutes.  It's too late to remove that pre-game tattoo if you team loses.

I'm sure many a Packer Fan is sporting a new tattoo in honor of the Super Bowl Victory.  This isn't just a game, no matter what us Penny Heads think.  I'm glad a victory was secured so our friend will have uber-fond memories of this momentous event.

The wife hung in there during this ever-important game.  As she has been fighting sciatica (and, I'm not sure who is winning at this point), she tried to stay calm, take everything in stride, focus on keeping her muscles as relaxed as possible....and, stretch during the game.  When things seemed to get pensive (the wife's word), she would suddenly drop to the ground and start doing stretches people do for back issues. 

It's pretty funny to see someone stretching while watching a sporting event on TV, but it seemed to work, so I did not laugh.  Too loudly.

As you know (if you live in the Western Hemisphere), the Packers won the Super Bowl and thus the wife did not spontaneously combust, which is a very good thing.  At the end of the game, I look over and see that she is sobbing.  Sobbing!  This Packer thing is SERIOUS business for her, her family and the state of Wisconsin.  I can't list all the reasons she was sobbing, but trust me that there were myriad reasons.  All poor Blue Eyes wanted to do is get a photo of all of us in front of the big screen TV with the Packer victory in the background, but she couldn't get the wife off the phone, as the wife was celebrating from afar with her dad, brothers, sisters, in-laws and the like.

This has all been too much for the wife.  Now, she has a cold or the flu or both.  It's stressful being an avid Packer fan.  While most cheeseheads are out celebrating in the streets, the wife is laying feverish in the sheets.  (I couldn't resist a little rhyme, tacky as it is.)  Whatever will happen when they repeat the victory next year?  She may actually combust.  I'll have to keep a fire extinguisher next to me during the game.

As for tattoos, I went and heard Margo Mifflin, author of this book (pictured here), speak at the local college (which just happens to be my alma mater) last night.  I was all a-glow when I heard she was coming to town, as I love tattoos, I love her book, I love books about women with tattoos.  I thought here, "here's my chance to get my book autographed!"  I sat with an auditorium-full of college students and professors--it was a very big crowd, as they had to be there to fulfill a college requirement.  Can you imagine?  It's a college requirement to attend a lecture on women with tattoos!  When I was in school, we had to listen to lame old white men babble on about things of no redeeming value and of which I cannot recall one, not even one, topic.  Had topics like this been included, I would have been running to these required Forum lectures!

Anyways, the book is great, Ms. Mifflin is great, the lecture was interesting. I stuck around after the lecture in an effort to get her autograph.  As several people had questions (more like comments and opinions to me), I had to patiently wait to meet her.  Twenty-two year old college students have much to say, so it was a long wait.  I only chimed in once--that's when one of the youngsters said she can't decide on a design because "what will it look like when I'm 40 or 50?  People who are 40 or 50 don't look good with tattoos."  I literally interrupted and said, "HEY NOW! As a 50 year old person with tattoos, you're making me nervous!"  That got a laugh (no, I'm not 50, but 48.75 is pretty close) and gave pause to the 22 year old.  I wasn't sure if she was going to ask about my age or my tattoos.  Her friend asked the burning question...."do you have any tattoos?"

I just laughed.  Do I have any tattoos?!!

The author, by the way, does NOT have any tattoos.  Interesting.  Nobody asked her age but they did ask if she had any tattoos.

It was at this point I jumped in, handed her the book, admitted I was a local stalker and asked for her autograph.  She obliged, looked a wee bit shocked or amused or confused or whatever--most people must not approach her after lectures asking for her autograph.  The students were all stunned into silence.  "WHERE did you get THAT book?" they exclaimed.  Um, people! There is this thing called the internet and it is much more useful than just for buying ring tones and social networking.  I assured them they could find it on line.

So, the Packers won the Super Bowl, I got my tattoo book autographed.....and, my toe is on the mend.  It was a big hit at Blue Eyes birthday party.  Why, here is a picture of my foot eating some birthday cake and partying with all the peeps.  I got a lot of ooohs and ahhhhhs and a few diagnoses.  Seems like gout is the front runner, followed by some unremembered, obviously lame injury.  Since things seem to be healing nicely, I am going to let sleeping dogs (as in feet) lie.  Lay.  Lie.  Buttever.  I highly doubt that it is gout.  If other joints spontaneously swell and burst into color, I will go to the doctor and seek help.  If nothing further occurs, we can make fun of the "I don't know" diagnosis and call it a day.  My mother had the best answer:  it was an injury designed to turn green and gold just in time for the Packer Super Bowl game.

Come to think of it, the bruise WAS green and gold by the time the game rolled around.....

.....coincidence?  I think not.
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The Continuing Saga of the Thunder-toe

Now that the blizzard has come and gone, the snow plow boy has hit the garage and the Dunkin' Donuts in our area are still closed, I can finish my toe-tally en-gross-ing toe/foot story.  (For those of you who "follow" me on Book de la Face," I apologize for the repeat. I promise this will still be entertaining.  Or, not.  I entertain myself.  I'm never sure about any of you.)

Here's a picture of my toe at Blue Eye's 50th birthday party last night.  My toe knows how to party....and, how to eat cake.  If you have to have ugly feet, you might as well enjoy them.  I demonstrated my toe prowess by enjoying a piece of cake.  I guess you could call this Toe Jam.  My toe was jamming!

So, the toe, the wife and I FINALLY found a walk-in/urgent care/not-so-convenient care center open during the blizzard.  It wasn't easy.  The wife hunkered down in the far corner of the waiting room--and, I do mean far corner--she wasn't near all those people hacking furballs and sporting fevers--while I waddled in to the exam room.  They got me in really quick, so I was impressed.

That was the absolute last moment I was impressed during the remainder of my medical interaction.

The nurse asks why I have come to the clinic today.  I take off my sock and point to my foot, which is black and blue and swollen and ugly.  It's pretty easy to see why I am there.  She asks what I kicked, dropped, hit.  I explain that this is a "eating dinner at the kitchen table unsolved mystery" non-injury.  She gives me an "uh huh" look (like, SURE you didn't do anything to it!), takes my vitals, tells me my blood pressure is higher due to my pain level (of which I have not once mentioned), insults me ("No more periods at the age, right?") and assures me the doctor will be right in.  Me and the toe sit on the table and await for assured medical diagnosis and advice, to contemplate the meaning of the nurse assuming that I am of such an advanced age that my eggs where no longer shooting out of my very beloved ovaries. 

Those eggs are shooting out of there like clockwork, people!  I'll give you a slap of perimenopausal PMS, lady.  THEN you'll know I am still young and able to bear the fruit of my womb if I should so chose.

The doctor zips in--a bearded fellow about 12 years old--seats himself at the computer and starts typing, muttering aloud everything he is typing along the way. Dr. Bearded reads this and that, asks a few medical history questions, repeats my answers aloud as he types.  He FINALLY decides he should actually look at me and inquire specifically why I am there.  Again, I point at my foot, as it's pretty much a no-brainer. 

"How did you injure this?" he asks.

"I'm not sure I did," I answer.

I then have to tell the story of how I was at the kitchen table eating dinner when this spontaneously happened.  He stands up, walks over to my foot and again asks, "How did you injure this?"

Oh boy. 

Un-gloved (yuck!), he touches my pinkie toe.  I assure him everything moves just fine and wiggle all the piggies for good measure.  He wiggles Mr. Pinkie and asks me if I am sure I didn't drop something on my foot or kick something.  He walks away and starts typing again.

Hello! You just touched my gross toes with your un-gloved hands and now you are typing on the community keyboard! BLECH!

Dr. Bearded indicates I need an x-ray as he has no idea what this is or what could have possibly have happened.  Incredibly, I am zipped away to the lab, have three x-rays and am back in an exam room in minutes.  It was almost amazing how fast everything went.  Maybe they had had enough and just wanted to go home.  Maybe they were excited to see something else besides a flu or cold case.  Maybe they just wanted me and my ugly foot outta there.  Whatever--things just zipped along.

Dr. Bearded is back in a matter of minutes.  I didn't even know you could develop x-rays that fast.  "Well, it's not broken," he announces.  I chew on this--that's good and bad.  If something were broken, that would solve the mystery.  Not being broken is awesome, but I still don't know anything more than I did when I walked in the door.  Since he's not offering any ideas, I ask, "it's not gout or cellulitis, is it?"  He gives me a quizzical look and then says, "no--not gout or cellulitis."  Okay, that's good.  "Perhaps a bruised Tailor Bunion?" I offer.  He again looks at me like he had never thought of that.  I'm thinking he has no idea what to do with that idea.  Never mind.  I decide to shut up and go home.

He then--and I swear this is absolutely true and a totally direct quote--says, "This is strange.  I don't know."

THAT becomes my diagnosis.  "I don't know."

I ask what I should do.  "Put ice on it."  He pauses and then says, "No, put heat on it."  He pauses and looks like he is not sure which I should do.  "Whatever feels best."

I guess when you don't know what something is, it's better to put it back on the patient so you don't turn out to be wrong.

He then adds--again I swear this is what happened--"You must have hurt it when going to the bathroom in the middle of the night and just don't remember it."

Huh??? What the hell is that kind of statement? Why would anyone say something like that?  Going to the bathroom in the middle of the night? Going to the bathroom in the middle of the night and not remembering an injury?  An injury that spontaneously surfaced during dinner the next day?????? 

It is at this point that I realize I have completely and totally wasted my time. 

I waddle out to the waiting room, tell the wife my diagnosis is "This is strange, I don't know," and wait for her reply. 

"THIS IS WHY I DON'T GO TO DOCTORS," she scowls.  She stands up as best she can (she's still got the horrible sciatica thing going on--and, no she hasn't gone to see a doctor) and says, "that's why I search the Internet for answers."  She then limps toward the door, leaving me to chuckle in the waiting room.  "Oh, yeah--he said he thinks it's because I kicked something in the middle of the night when going to the bathroom and just don't remember."

She shakes her head in complete and total disgust, then throws herself out into the blizzard. 

And, so dear readers, it's your turn.  Feel free to make a diagnosis.  Heck, make two.  It's not like you can do any worse.  I'm thinking it is a bunion/bursa/blood vessel gone wrong, somehow injured (in the middle of the night when going to the bathroom???) but not surfacing until later in the night, as if spontaneously.  How something can be totally normal and unbruised and not swollen one minute and then magically have all those things within an hour--during dinner--is beyond me.

Until then, my foot and I are gonna have a great time.  No sense sitting around.  We went partying last night and it was fun.  The toe was a big hit, had its own paparazzi.  It danced, it ate cake, it waved hello to all its fans.  Sure, it was more swollen after all that, but it's worth it.  If you are going to have a mystery foot, you must enjoy it.  Tonight, we'll go out to dinner tonight. 

I promise to keep my foot off the table.

**********************************************************

Thunder Toe for Thunder Snow

Well, the blizzard of 2011 has arrived and although it is a doozy, I am a wee bit disappointed--where's the 20+ inches of snow they promised us?  All this talk of having more snow than 1967.  Pshaw!  I suppose I should hold my tongue until it's over, as it's still snowing and blowing and howling and....well, blizzarding. I remember the snowstorms of 1967 and 1979, each delicious in their own way.  The Blizzard of 2011 isn't half as exciting.  Maybe that's because I am not a kid and am in no mood to make a snow fort. Maybe it's my disappointment in the volume of snow....

.....maybe it's because I didn't go out and buy bread and milk once I heard the storm was coming.  What IS up with that? Why is it the first thing I think of when I hear there is going to be a blizzard is, "I better go out and buy some bread and milk?"  (For the record, I picture a gallon of whole milk and Wonder White bread.)  I don't even drink milk milk--I drink soy milk--so why the heck am I thinking I should go buy a gallon of milk from a cow? I certainly don't eat Wonder white bread anymore.  I guess it's just a childhood flashback kind of thing.  I do know that I stayed far away from Wal-mart yesterday, despite this thought.  I'm no fool.  The first of the month is bad enough--add a pending blizzard to the first day of the month, forget it.  The only way it could have been worse is had it been a Saturday on the first the day before a blizzard.  Poke.eyes.out.now!

The dogs are not entertained by all this blizzarding, but that howling wind with the snow that hurts really seems to encourage a quick taking care of business.  I think they started pooping before they even got out the garage door, in an attempt to be as efficient as possible.

The street has not been plowed. With drifts at least four feet high, I'm not sure plowing would anything but a waste of time.  I need to go to the doctor (for a mysterious toe ailment), but certainly will not be going any time soon. It's not like my toe is going to fall off or anything.....well, at least I don't think so.  I've kinda freaked out some people on Book de la Face with my foot-photo-postings and thus I'm not sure if or if not my toe is going to spontaneously combust.  The injury has aptly been named "Thunder-toe" by a FB friend.  So, I guess we can say I am completely in the blizzard spirit with my "Thunder-toe for Thunder-snow!"

I've NEVER missed a day of work do to weather--or, a toe injury, for that matter.  (Of course, I wasn't working in 1979 or 1967, so I would have missed work on those days but I was just a child, so no missed work.)  Had I no toe injury (of which I shall speak in a moment), I would try to go.  This mentality makes the wife incensed.  But, what does she know--teachers LIVE for snow days.  They don't have that built in stupidity--er, I mean stamina that says one should go to work when it is snowing.  They PRAY for snow.  (Side note: If you would like to read about "Hell Hath No Fury Like a Teacher Waiting for a Snow Day," please refer to my blog entry from 2006 at http://addiwp.blogspot.com/2006/12/snow-day-hell-hath-no-fury-like-teacher.html ) 

About the toe....I was sitting at the kitchen table Monday night, eating my rice and beans (which were quite delicious, I might add), when I suddenly felt this very weird sensation in my left foot.  It was enough that I mentioned it immediately to the wife.  I pulled off my sock and quite to my amazement, the side of my foot was swelling right before my eyes!  I called the wife over and showed her the "event."  It was swelling so much that the skin was visibly stretching a bit.  It hadn't hurt but then it hurt in a dull, aching, stretching way.  I was so enthralled that I took a photo of the foot as it swelled.  Had I been thinking, I would have taken a video.

This perplexed me.  I mean, I was sitting at the table doing nothing more than chewing. I wasn't moving, I didn't kick anything, nothing kicked me, nothing bit me.  I hadn't dropped anything on my foot, I hadn't gone walking or running, I didn't wear a pair of tight shoes (in fact, I had been wearing my very comfortable, very generously-sized Doc Martens all day--which are like pillows on my feet).  I hadn't done much of anything.  I went to work, came home from work, ate rice and beans.  So, why my foot was spontaneously swelling was beyond me.

So, in true FB form, I posted the photo on Book de la Face and finished my rice and beans.

The Book de la Face people started to freak out.  I had to end the madness by assuring them I was posting the photos to be a weirdo smarty-pants and because I knew people would have some hilarious diagnoses.  I had to stop posting photos and instead promise them I would go to the doctor.  The problem at the time of this promise? I wasn't going anywhere in that weather.  Disappointing blizzard or not, there was no traveling to get medical attention during the evening's weather.


And so, I am sitting here this morning, drinking coffee, typing a blog and waiting to go to the doctor.  I'll have plenty of time to shave my legs and paint my toenails before I can get out of the driveway.  So my record remains perfect, I want to make it perfectly clear: I am calling off of work because of my toe, not the weather.  As soon as the roads are at least clear enough to make it out of the subdivision, I'll be on my way.

And, you know I will post photos of whatever the outcome may be.  Perhaps I'll stop and get some milk and bread on the way home......