2009 Might Be a Very Loooooong Year

Just yesterday it seemed that there is so much to celebrate and anticipate in the coming year. But now I am just quaking in my UGG boots. I found this little dilly under my pillow, my pillow, the pillow upon which I rest my head!

Dear Mom,

Happy Prank Year!

P.S. Prank year is in 2009
but I just wanted to get you started.

P.P.S. This is Dad's dirty underwear.

Love, Laura

Hee Hee!

I am totally traumatized. It's looking like I have a long year ahead of me.

We had been planning an overnight trip and dinner out tonight followed by a visit to one of the California missions tomorrow. Laura is studying missions in school. She got a camera for Christmas. We'll be visiting the mission on which she was assigned to write a report so she can see it in person and take photos. We really know how to show a girl a good time on New Year's Eve, huh? However, now I think I might just ring in the New Year from an undisclosed location. I'd tell you all my newly forming plans, but Laura reads my blog and I don't want her to find me. Wish me luck.

What are/were your plans for ringing in the New Year?

(Pictures not the property of the very traumatized Blog This Mom! are courtesy of Google Images.)

Inscrutable Scrutiny

Deb at San Diego Momma is hosting PROMPTuesday #36: The Senses.

Scroll down to see my submission for this week, "Inscrutable Scrutiny." Below the prompt, past the rules, and under the photo and audio link, yo. Keep on scrollin'.

Here's Deb's prompt message and rules:

Here’s the background: I recall taking the picture of the man below waiting at the bus stop, and he never once looked up as I surveyed his angles and released my noisy shutter over and over just feet from his face. I still think of him often, photoaging him in my mind to imagine what he looks like now, to place him in a happier place; and I return to this picture again and again to analyze his inscrutability.

Write a story about this guy. Or a poem. Or a rumination. Give him some background, some context. And because I couldn’t leave well enough alone, I’ve provided a song snippet to shadow the photo. Hopefully, one or the other will inspire you.

* Try to write your entry in 10 minutes.
* Aim for 250 words or less.

So . . . here's PROMPTuesday #36 by Blog This Mom!





Brandi Carlile - Turpentine


Inscrutable Scrutiny

The small town has no paved road. A thin layer of brown dust seems to cover every surface outside, but inside the tiny house every surface is spic and span. In stark contrast to the dry climate outdoors, her skin is dewy and moist as she stands by the kitchen sink gazing out of the window. The very beginning of a swell is showing in her lower abdomen, and her left hand rests over it.

Hundreds of miles away from the dusty small town, he sits and waits at a bus stop. The calluses on his hands have begun to soften. A silent observer looks in his direction, but he doesn’t notice. He is deep in thought. The observing woman is captivated by his expression, and ponders over what he might be thinking. She takes a camera out of her bag.

Inside of the tiny house, her hand moves from her belly to her eyes. She rubs them as she moves from the kitchen window to the stove. She thinks of him, yearns for him, as she stirs the contents of the pot. He is a quiet man, but she understands him as though he were whispering in her ear everything on his mind. With her mind’s eye she sees his face, and she gazes upon his heavy eyebrows, his contemplative squint, his dark hair, and the jut of his jaw. Every detail of him is etched in her brain, as if a black and white photograph were lodged permanently in the recesses of her mind.

Puttin' on the Ritz

Have you noticed?

Blog This Mom! has a new outfit on.

Isn't it purdy?

Be honest.

Does it make my butt look fat?

So I bet you're wondering where I got this lovely new outfit. It just so happens that Melanie at BeanPaste, with her big heart and mad photography/design skills, donated not one, not two, but three new blog designs for the NieNie Benefit Auction. And guess what? I won one of them!

So . . . Melanie waved her magic wand, sprinkled some fairy dust, and whipped up a new masthead, tweaked colors, fiddled with fonts, and laid out new layouts. She still has a bit more to do, she says, although things look pretty groovy to me.

After Melanie tweaked fonts and colors and stuff, I went in and tweaked fonts and colors and stuff too. You know how you just gotta play with your hair after getting it cut and styled? It was like that. I just had to fiddle around with it. So anything that doesn't look purdy is my doing.

Melanie was so sweet about everything too.

During the transition period Melanie sent me comforting emails.

During the transition period I alternately passed out, ate M&Ms, hit the refresh button on my blog every two seconds, ate M&Ms, broke out in a cold sweat, ate M&Ms, fretted, ate M&Ms, and was grateful for Melanie's patient competence.

I might be all iPhone boyfriend blah blah blah and laptop boyfriend yada yada yada and blog this and flickr that, but the truth is that I. Am. A. Big. Scaredy. Cat. when it comes to making changes to anything, particularly changes to anything with a byte.

I'm still all tWitchy.

Another handful of M&Ms ought to help.

I am grateful to Melanie for coming by to help me put on the Ritz in time for the new year. Melanie's custom blog designs come with generosity, soothing emails, and patience. Go check out her website for details. M&Ms not included.

BeanPaste Design

(Pictures courtesy of Google Images.)

From Our Home to Yours

Signs of Love

Laura, at age 7

When Laura was three, she began attending a preschool in which 15-20% of the student population was comprised of children with special needs. One of her friends had Cerebral Palsy and did not have speech. She required aids to hear, and couldn't always wear them. Another one of Laura’s friends had Down Syndrome, and he relied on signing to communicate back then.

Because it was important to Laura to communicate with her friends, she demanded to learn sign language. Once she’d exhausted the vocabulary of her preschool teachers and friends' moms, Laura’s demand for more words led me to a series of DVDs from Signing Time!

Signing Time! DVDs (and books and music) are available over at Amazon, of course, but check out the Signing Time! website. The story of how Signing Time! came about will put a lump in your throat and a smile on your face for the rest of the day.

Here’s a little excerpt to get you started:

In December of 1996, Rachel Coleman and her husband Aaron welcomed their first daughter Leah into the world. At the time, Rachel was writing music and performing with her folk rock band. They would take young Leah to band practices and concerts and were amazed that she was able to sleep in spite of the loud music. When she was fourteen months old, they discovered why: Leah is profoundly deaf.

Can you imagine being a musician and your child is born deaf? What was this mother’s response? Signing Time! And in so doing, her outreach was global. I encourage you to read their inspiring story.

When Laura was four she began taking weekly sign language classes, which she continues to this day. Last night, Laura performed in a concert. So, yeah, I'm a proud mama and am including a short video clip. But proud mama or not, sign language is a beautiful thing to watch.

Bitch Slap 2: Including Toe Photo

What was Jenn thinking? I’m starting to get the feeling that she likes bitch slaps. And why wouldn’t she? Jenn won the first one.

Bitch Slap:

Jenn posted a picture of her Christmas tree, which looked like mine, at first glance. But anyone could see that the free ornament that came with our National Lampoon’s Chrismas Vacaction DVD and the ornaments we made from toilet paper rolls were not the same as Jenn's. Jenn’s Christmas tree has dough ornaments blah blah blah and snow babies whatever and themed yada yada yada. And so Jenn had to answer in Blogger Bitch Slap: Cheri versus Jenn. Jenn won, if you're into tasteful decor and stuff. Cheri licked her wounds and then "rallied," so to speak and as you shall see.

Bitch Slap 2:

Jenn has posted another picture. And because of it, Jenn and Cheri gotta go another round. No Jason, still no mud or bikinis. We’s old bitches, so mud and bikinis would not be a positive experience for anyone.

It all started when I asked Jenn to post a picture of the dress she wore to a recent Christmas party. A simple request, one would think. But did she do it? No. What did she do instead? Posted a photo of her toenails, that’s what. WTFrick? Her toenails? Did she do this to taunt me? Because I know there is a secret message just for me buried in every one of Jenn’s posts. She is code talking to me all the time. I’m sure of it. They make medication for people who think things like this, don’t they?

First my toe was red and infected, and I was suffering. Then my toe turned Elphaba green, and I was suffering. And then I had Papa Smurf blue toe when that smokin’ hawt doctor had to remove my toenail, and I was suffering except for the part about the hawt doctor. He removed the entire toenail. It hurt real bad. I couldn’t wear shoes for almost two weeks. And it rained. In Southern California. My feet were cold. All of the time. In Southern California. Fo' realz.

So instead of a photo of Jenn in her Christmas party dress, she posted a photo of her Christmas party big toenail. Her big toenail, still attached to her toe, all pedicured and painted for Christmas. This isn't even in secret code or anything. It's pretty blatant that she's talkin' to me. Are you talkin' to me? Medication time.



Jenn, Jenn, Jenn, Jenn, I see your Merry Christmas mistletoe- and snowflake- and holly-painted toenail and raise you one formerly red, green, and blue toenail-less toe, now with a custom rally racing stripe. Unless you’re Deb or kcinnova or my brother-in-law, do not click on the photo for a close-up.




I think we all agree the score is now:

Jenn – 1, Cheri – 1.

Boo-ya.

P.S. From one San Diego Blog Bitch to another, it must be said: Cute shoes, Jenn!

Wise Men Bring Gifts

It is PROMPTuesday #35: The Secret over at San Diego Momma.

Deb’s PROMPT: Tell a secret. A true secret. About yourself.

Deb: Cool. Kind of like Post Secret, except not because you want me to post my secret on my blog for the world both of my readers to read and know that the secret posted is my secret. And, of course, no postcards are involved. So, yeah, cool.

Readers: Rather than tell all both of you my secret right up front, why don’t you read my story and see if you can find my secret before you get to the end. There was a pun in the last sentence, and the pun was at the end. Also? My secret has to do with buns, and buns rhyme with puns. Speaking of rhymes, my secret rhymes with Freud, and Freud would probably have a thing or two to say about someone whose puns rhyme with buns.

Wise Men Bring Gifts

I have been having a hard time sitting down for extended periods of time, and going number two for the last couple of days is especially painful. The reason I can’t sit or poop comfortably rhymes with Freud. I might as well put that right out there rather than make you wait until the end. There’s that intended pun – the end, and pun rhymes with bun. The thing that rhymes with Freud is in my bun end. Are we all on the same page? If not, keep reading.

So not being one to complain about medical conditions (I have a straight face, do you?), I casually mentioned to Tom that the Preparation H in our medicine cabinet expired five years ago, and I didn’t think it was working on my end. My buns were still uncomfortable after using it for a couple of days, buns rhyming with puns, of course. And then I didn’t mention my secret that rhymes with Freud again, except for when I’d sit down or poop.

On Sunday, Laura and I were baking cookies. From scratch, with organic ingredients, and they were shaped like ducks. I’m not making any of this up. Tom left to go get a pedicure. I’m still not making any of this up. Now Tom really isn’t in it so much for the pedicure as he is the foot and neck massage that he gets simultaneously with his pedicure, by two women at once. Yes, you read that correctly, two women at once massaging my husband. I allow this because Tom allows me to lust after blog about church bass players, Johnny Depp, Wentworth Miller, hawt toenail-removing doctors, and so forth. Tolerance Trust Tolerance and trust are two of the secrets to a successful long-term marriage, by the way, and ours has lasted thirteen years to the day. (Happy Anniversary, Honey, now excuse me. I gotta get back to writing yet another post about the intimate details of our lives.)

When Tom came home from his ménage a pedicure, he had a bag in his hand and proffered it to me. “I brought you something,” he said. I thought, “Wow! What could it be?” I was a little bit excited and quickly opened the bag. What to my wondering eyes did I see? Why it was a brand new tube of Preparation H! I was immediately touched. I really was. I felt so loved. I really did. You see, I hadn’t even asked him to go to the store for me. He thought of it all on his own. And I noticed that he even got the extra-strength kind with pain reliever. He must really love me.

But that’s not the end of the story. Oh, no, it’s not. Now I have to back up a bit. Tom injured his hamstring last week while running, and he’s got a pretty serious limp going on. In fact, after he hurt himself Laura said, “Between Daddy’s hamstring and Mommy’s toe, I don’t have a parent who can walk.” (My toe is better, by the way, and thanks to all of you who’ve asked. Seriously.) Now back to the story about the thing in my bun end that rhymes with Freud: Tom told me that when he went into the drug store, it was very crowded with shoppers. He said that he felt a little self-conscious when he had to limp to the cash register with freshly pedicured feet holding a tube of Preparation H.

(Pictures courtesy of Google Images.)

Blogger Bitch Slap: Cheri versus Jenn

So. Does anyone remember the katydidnot versus karla with a k bitch slap? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? The tariff bill? The Hawley-Smoot Tariff Act? Bueller? Anyone?

katydidnot remembers! Okay. Good. For the rest of you: That particular bitch slap resulted in a new line of clothing and gave us me someone else to be all snarky about for, like, ever.

So. I did not see this coming, but Jenn, who is a fellow San Diego Blog Bitch, brought it. And now? Jenn has to answer.

Jenn's Tree

Jenn posted an “obligatory” photo of her Christmas tree a couple of days ago. It made me ooo and aah when I saw it. Because at first I was all, “Oh, I have pretty red bows on my tree like Jenn’s” and “Yeah, I have handmade ornaments like Jenn” and “Look! Jenn and I both have white lights on our trees!”

Cheri's Tree

But upon closer inspection? Jenn's tree puts Cheri's tree to shame. So? This is where I have to take this mother apart point by point, katydidnot versus karla with a k-style.

Jenn has ornaments that came from years of a traditional exchange with another family.

Cheri has ornaments that came free with a National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation DVD and a Polly Pocket doll.

Jenn has handmade dough ornaments made from ideas found in Family Fun and Good Housekeeping.

Cheri’s handmade ornaments are made from toilet paper rolls, aluminum foil, and cotton balls.

Jenn’s ornaments are seasonally themed (by season Jenn means holiday): "Snowmen, Snow Babies, and Santas."

Cheri’s ornaments are seasonally themed (by season Cheri means television): "SpongeBob, I Lucy Lucy, and The Simpsons."

The very placement of Jenn’s ornaments are remarkable too. Each ornament is hung on its own branch, evenly spaced, and is aesthetically pleasing. Jenn probably hung them all by herself, or, if she got help, it was from children who could reach higher than three feet and had actual attention spans.

The very placement of Cheri’s ornaments are remarkable too. Laura was very excited to help Cheri. Laura put all the cheesy, decrepit, fake, lead-paint-coated, Bisphenol-A-plastic apples on one low branch, warned Cheri within an inch of her life not to move the apples because “they’re supposed to be like that,” and then wandered off . . .

But Cheri’s tree and Jenn’s tree both have handmade ornaments, red bows, and white lights.

That’s the same, right?

Okay. Fine.

Jenn - 1, Cheri - 0



(Photos not the property of Blog This Mom! were shoplifted from Juggling Life and Google Images.)

A Limerick for a Lady

Deb at San Diego Momma is hosting PROMPTuesday #34: Bawdy Prose. Why? Because it's the Holidays. You may have noticed that today is Wednesday, but you're probably much too polite to bring my tardiness to anyone's attention and I appreciate that. Still, you may be wondering why I am late posting this. Can you guess?

Possible reasons that WhoaItIsWednesday is the new PROMPTuesday at Blog This Mom!:

1. I was being fitted with a prosthetic toe on Tuesday.

2. Petty annoyances like raising children interfered with blogging on Tuesday.

3. I am addicted to Prison Break and watched all twenty-six hours of season one during the twenty-fours hours of Tuesday.

4. I am addicted to Wentworth Miller and cyberstalked him all day on Tuesday.

5. My Internet connection was down much of the day on Tuesday and it keeps going out today and is it the wind blowing on the cables? and why does it keep going out? and so I can't read blogs or post to my blog or send emails or receive emails or cyberstalk Wentworth Miller and if it weren't for Prison Break to distract me from the toe pain I would have lost my mind on Tuesday.

Speaking of Prison Break, maybe you have the same question that Laura asked me yesterday: "Do you and Daddy kiss naked while you watch Prison Break?" I giggled when Laura asked me that, but then I thought, "Hey, she might be on to something!" Because? Kissing naked with one eye on Wentworth Miller? Brilliant. You see? I'm raising a brilliant child despite the time it takes away from my blogging to do so.

Naked. Wentworth Miller. Kissing. Um. What was I saying? Oh. Yeah. PROMPTuesday. On Wednesday.


Deb's prompt this week: Please compose a holiday limerick.


So . . . rather than composing something bawdy and rhyming with sleigh (holiday? gay?), I composed a non-bawdy and almost-rhyming limerick for Deb.

A Limerick for a Lady

There once was a writer named Deb

Who wove tales on the World Wide Web,

Each Tuesday she’d prompt

‘Til I got verklempt

From limericks rolling ‘round in my head.

An Ecomonic Bailout We Can All Live With: Loving

A little lesson in law, history, and economics, with a side order of love and laughter.

In 1967, in the landmark civil rights case Loving v. Virginia, the U.S. Supreme Court concluded: "Under our Constitution, the freedom to marry, or not marry, a person of another race resides with the individual and cannot be infringed by the State." Many believe, myself included, that the Court's reasoning in Loving will be found applicable to marriages between same-gender partners, and, apparently, so did Mildred Loving. On the 40th anniversary of the Loving decision, she delivered the following statement:

Loving for All
By Mildred Loving
Prepared for Delivery on June 12, 2007,
The 40th Anniversary of the Loving v. Virginia Announcement

When my late husband, Richard, and I got married in Washington, DC in 1958, it wasn't to make a political statement or start a fight. We were in love, and we wanted to be married.

We didn't get married in Washington because we wanted to marry there. We did it there because the government wouldn't allow us to marry back home in Virginia where we grew up, where we met, where we fell in love, and where we wanted to be together and build our family. You see, I am a woman of color and Richard was white, and at that time people believed it was okay to keep us from marrying because of their ideas of who should marry whom.

When Richard and I came back to our home in Virginia, happily married, we had no intention of battling over the law. We made a commitment to each other in our love and lives, and now had the legal commitment, called marriage, to match. Isn't that what marriage is?

Not long after our wedding, we were awakened in the middle of the night in our own bedroom by deputy sheriffs and actually arrested for the "crime" of marrying the wrong kind of person. Our marriage certificate was hanging on the wall above the bed.

The state prosecuted Richard and me, and after we were found guilty, the judge declared: "Almighty God created the races white, black, yellow, malay and red, and he placed them on separate continents. And but for the interference with his arrangement there would be no cause for such marriages. The fact that he separated the races shows that he did not intend for the races to mix." He sentenced us to a year in prison, but offered to suspend the sentence if we left our home in Virginia for 25 years exile. We left, and got a lawyer. Richard and I had to fight, but still were not fighting for a cause. We were fighting for our love.

Though it turned out we had to fight, happily Richard and I didn't have to fight alone. Thanks to groups like the ACLU and the NAACP Legal Defense & Education Fund, and so many good people around the country willing to speak up, we took our case for the freedom to marry all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court. And on June 12, 1967, the Supreme Court ruled unanimously that, "The freedom to marry has long been recognized as one of the vital personal rights essential to the orderly pursuit of happiness by free men," a "basic civil right."

My generation was bitterly divided over something that should have been so clear and right. The majority believed that what the judge said, that it was God's plan to keep people apart, and that government should discriminate against people in love. But I have lived long enough now to see big changes. The older generation's fears and prejudices have given way, and today's young people realize that if someone loves someone they have a right to marry.

Surrounded as I am now by wonderful children and grandchildren, not a day goes by that I don't think of Richard and our love, our right to marry, and how much it meant to me to have that freedom to marry the person precious to me, even if others thought he was the "wrong kind of person" for me to marry. I believe all Americans, no matter their race, no matter their sex, no matter their sexual orientation, should have that same freedom to marry. Government has no business imposing some people’s religious beliefs over others. Especially if it denies people’s civil rights.

I am still not a political person, but I am proud that Richard's and my name is on a court case that can help reinforce the love, the commitment, the fairness, and the family that so many people, black or white, young or old, gay or straight seek in life. I support the freedom to marry for all. That's what Loving, and loving, are all about.

What will happen if when same-gender marriage is legalized in the United States? Will people be able to marry chickens? Will polygamy be legal? Will gay marriage be taught in schools? Will we lose our religious freedom? Will we turn into pillars of salt? Seriously? Or not. How about this: Will legalizing same-gender marriage be the solution to the economic crisis currently facing our nation?

See more Jack Black videos at Funny or Die

Have a great weekend!

And Now I Have Papa Smurf Toe

The saga of my big toe continues. And although it isn’t over yet . . . in the middle of the epic tale is a smokin’ hot doctor, complete with green scrubs and a darling scruffy goatee.

Here’s the toe story recap:

First, my big toe turned red.

Next, my toe became green with a "Wicked" case of Elphaba toe. At which point I should never have joked about getting a strap-on toe. I tempted fate.

Now my toe is blue.

It became clear after the long Thanksgiving weekend that despite copious doses of antibiotics and delicious food consumed in mass quantities, my toe was only getting worse. So I went to a foot specialist on Monday, a smokin’ hot doctor, complete with green scrubs and a darling scruffy goatee. And then? Totally humiliated myself. I can never go back there. Not ever. Which totally blows because my shoulder surgeon is part of that medical group, and he’s hot too. You see, although I am often afflicted with various medical conditions, I do have the good fortune of finding hot doctors to see me through the days weeks months years lifetime of suffering I was apparently born to endure.



Dr. Smokin’ Hot Complete With Green Scrubs And A Darling Scruffy Goatee: "We are going to have to numb your toe and remove the nail."

Me: "Wha???? Really???"

Dr. SHCWGSAADSG: "Yes. We must act quickly to save your life, but don't worry, I will save you."

Me: "Are you sure? Seriously? The whole toenail? All of it? You can’t save any of it?"

Dr. SHCWGSAADSG: "The whole nail has to come off so that I can clean out the infected area. The antibiotics aren’t going to do the job alone."

Me: "But I need my husband here. I need someone. No offense, I’m sure you’re very nice. But I need someone I know to hold my hand. I know! Tom D. works here. Can you go get Tom D. for me?"

Dr. SHCWGSAADSG: "Do you know Tom D.?"

Me: "Not very well. But his wife and I are good friends. She referred me here. And my husband’s name is also Tom, so any old Tom will be fine. I’m in a pinch, you know."

Dr. SHCWGSAADSG: "Do you want to schedule this for tomorrow and come back with your husband?"

Me: "No. My husband is really busy today, and he’ll probably be really busy tomorrow. He’s busy every day. I just want to get it over with."

Dr. SHCWGSAADSG: "You’ll need get up on the examination table."

Me: "The TABLE? I have to get up there? I have to be on the table? Are you sure? Wait! Are you really sure you have to take off the toenail? There is no other way? Well, at least you don’t have to remove the toe itself. I told my husband that I was afraid it might come to that, but mostly I was just trying to get his attention. Well, at least it's only the toenail. But really? Are you 100% certain this is the only way?"

Dr. SHCWGSAADSG [smiling]: "I’m certain. Don’t you trust me?"

Me [telling a white lie so as not to hurt his feelings, and think of this: smile with scruffy goatee]: "Well, yes, I trust you. If I didn’t I’d have gone running from the room when you said you had to remove my entire toenail. Well, hopping. I would have hopped from the room."

Dr. SHCWGSAADSG [comes toward me with the first of four syringes with needles so long you could knit an afghan with them]: "First, I’m going to numb your toe completely."

Me: "Wait! I need something else to hold since there are no Toms available. Let me get my boyfriend."

Dr. SHCWGSAADSG looks puzzled. I reach into my purse, pull out my iPhone, and hug it closely to my chest.

Me [hugging my iPhone]: "What? I love my iPhone boyfriend. He comforts me. Okay. You may proceed."

Dr. SHCWGSAADSG looks as though he’s considering calling in a psych evaluation.

Me: "I’m really much braver than I seem. I’ve been through worse things than having a toenail removed. Honest, I have. I’ve had three children and taken the bar exam. Actually? The bar exam was the most painful. That thing took three days. Three painful days. What? Not funny? Sorry. I’ve had to rely on humor to get me through many a crisis in my life. Sometimes I’m not funny though."

Dr. SHCWGSAADSG: "Okay, I’m going to start the injections now, so don’t move your foot."

Me: "Oh my God! You’re really going to do this, aren’t you? You’re sure, right? Yes, you’re sure. You said that. Okay. Go ahead. Also? I babble when I’m nervous. You don’t have to respond or anything. My husband? He’s used to me. He just patiently listens. You’re being awfully patient too. Thank you."

[SOUND OF CRICKETS]

Me: "Owww! Oh! Owww! Eff! Eff! Frick! Frick!"

Dr. SHCWGSAADSG: "You can say the F-word if you want."

Me: "I’d rather not. Not that I’m opposed to the F-word. Owww! Frick! Eff! I use it often enough. Eff! Frick! Eff!"

Dr. SHCWGSAADSG [putting another needle sideways into my toe]: "So why not say it now?"

Me: "Owww! Good question! Frick! Eff! If I opt not to use it this time, a time when I really deserve to use it, then it will offset all the times that I said the F-word without really needing it. This will give me karmic balance."

[SOUND OF CRICKETS]

Me: "What are you doing now?"

Dr. SHCWGSAADSG: "Waiting for the toe to get completely numb."

Me: "Oh my gosh, by all means, please wait for that. I don’t suppose you could put me to sleep? Knock me out! Wake me up when it's time for a pedicure! No? I suppose not. That would be inconvenient. I’d need a ride home and stuff. Okay, we’ll just do the numbing thing. I won’t feel anything, right?"

Dr. SHCWGSAADSG: "You’ll just feel a little pressure. I’m removing the nail now. I want you to look at your toe so I can show you why the nail had to be removed."

Me: "Are you kidding me? I’m not looking. No way. Is it bleeding? Is it green? Look at it? You want me to look at it? Me? Do you want me to faint? Well, I'm already lying down. I’m afraid. Really? I should look? Now?"

Dr. SHCWGSAADSG: "I really do want you to look."

I look at my foot.

Me: "Oh. My. God. Oh. I wish I hadn’t looked."

Dr. SHCWGSAADSG: "But see this [pointing at the horror that ought not be described]? This must be cleaned out and to do that the toenail had to come off."

Me: "It’s BLEEDING! There’s blood all over the place. Why is there so much blood? Oh. My. God. It looks like Dexter was here. Do you watch Dexter? I love that show. I don’t mind the blood on television. I do mind it all over me though. Why did you make me look? Wow. This is a lot of blood. I wish I hadn’t looked."

Dr. SHCWGSAADSG: "The blood is a good thing right now. It will help clean out the infected area."

Dr. SHCWGSAADSG pulls up my pant leg to keep it out of the blood.

Me: "Oh, just leave my pant leg down. I didn’t shave my legs."

Dr. SHCWGSAADSG: "Don’t worry. I won’t judge you."

Me: "Hey, that was funny. You’re funny. How long until my toenail grows back? It will grow back, right?"

Dr. SHCWGSAADSG: "About six months."

Me: "Really? How am I supposed to do things without a toenail?"

Dr. SHCWGSAADSG: "What things?"

Me: "I don’t KNOW. Walk. Run. Wear shoes. I suppose ballet is out. Pedicures too. Not much point in painting nine toenails red for the holidays and drawing attention to the one big bare toe. But at least I have all ten toes. Do I need to come back and see you for a follow up or anything?"

Dr. SHCWGSAADSG: "Only if you have nothing else to do."

Me: "Okay. I do have something else to do. And it's a good thing that I have something else to do because now I’m too embarrassed to come back anyway."

Then Dr. SHCWGSAADSG wrapped up my toe in gauze and covered it with a blue cohesive bandage.

So . . . . now I have Papa Smurf toe.

And? Maybe Santa will bring me a set of these for my toes: