i give you the greatest post about nothing ever!
So I planned to come home yesterday and write an inspiring, uplifting, highly quotable post for the ages, but by the time I returned from work and prepared to nestle safely back into the loving arms of my children, who immediately trumpeted my arrival with rapid-fire skedaddlin' out the door to play with their neighborhood friends (oh, and to tell me my Tool Man HAD been home, but had left because he apparently had, and I quote, things to do), my left foot was afflicted with a kind of pain that caused me to moan and thrash and weep mascara destroying pools of salt down my face, and apparently, though I've not yet figured out how, the pain in my foot makes it utterly impossible for me to also use my hands for such things as cleaning and typing, which is going to seem really odd in a few hours if you see me splattered all over Twitter or attempt to engage me in a jovial chat session where we spend enlightening moments LOLing each other's greatness.
So, long story short, my mysterious foot pain has rendered me incapable of writing my inspiring, uplifting, highly quotable post for the ages. The human body is a miraculous and incredibly mysterious thing! As a result, you get this.
When my Tool Man did return to the fold, he finally sighed and declared "Enough!" (although silently, for sometimes, and isn't that cute, I think he fears me), went out to the garage (aka - hell) and came back inside with the mangiest looking, science experiment containing plastic bucket and what appeared to be a dried up container of milk. I deduced it looked to be a dried up container of milk because he was shaking it and I could hear (over the gnashing of my teeth and crocodile tears)(seriously, when people say you forget the pain of childbirth, clearly that is the case for me, because I gave birth to two big babies without the benefit of modern pain temping medicine, but this foot, this demon appendage, is killing me. Were I to actually call a doctor - oh, what a novel idea! - and describe it to them, I would say, between the tears, remember, that it felt as though my heel had been secretly removed and replaced with a butcher knife. A BUTCHER KNIFE OF DOOM!) the maraca-like sounds of what could only be dried milk being forced to party. Or Epsom salt. It was totally Epsom salt (question - why do we have Epsom salt, dried out or otherwise, in our garage, aka hell?).
A few seconds later, Tool Man was plunging my demon paw into a vat of scalding hot, milky water, and when I was shocked out of the daze of my pain, I looked down to see he'd placed my foot in that nasty bucket he'd brought in from the garage (aka - hell). AND HE HADN'T REALLY CLEANED IT!! The the pain! The PAIN made it impossible for me to tell him that I now suspected I'd die of some parasite that would worm it's way in through the impenetrable fortress of my dried foot skin and wow, for that I hope you're happy, Tool Man! No. No, I didn't do that. Instead, I sat with my foot in that mysterious sludge factory for over an hour, and while my foot still does not feel the least bit better, something good did come of it. Want to know what?
Tool Man made supper last night! Hooray! Fireworks! No sex, though, because OMG, my foot!! She burns!
Also because he didn't do the dishes (and this surprises me why based on the bucket he had me put my foot in?), which was a little thing I discovered around 11:30 p.m., last night when I crawled my way up to the kitchen from the living room and sought refuge and inspiration for the arduous task of crawling up stairs to bed that lay before me. Living in a tri-split level house is not exactly The Tits when your toes (and your butcher knife heel) mocks you, my friends. So I busted out a flamingo move - balanced on one leg, don'tcha know - and did up those dishes because if there's one thing I can't stand, it's waking up to last night's dishes all over the kitchen.
Oh, and I also can't stand my unbearable, makes it difficult to stand, foot pain, too.
And world suffering.
And that show Eureka that Tool Man has to watch every Friday night.
Speaking of watching things, Tool Man and I are just now watching last season's Grey's Anatomy in an attempt to unclog our DVR and prepare for the hunting and gathering required of the new fall television season, and while we're watching Izzy go through her cancer issues (surely this is no longer a spoiler to anyone, right? I mean, it wasn't even a spoiler to me because hi, Grey's Anatomy has been off since early last May and even I wasn't able to avoid finding out how the season ended, but please, don't tell Tool Man because he doesn't know and, friends, in the past, Tool Man has totally wept a little bit at Grey's Anatomy and I find that adorable)(he doesn't find it adorable when I weep at Eureka, though, because he says I'm lying and my tears are to tears of heartfelt emotion but more of annoyance tinged with exhaustion) and as I was sitting there with my butcher knife stabby, potentially parasitic foot, I realized I was really starting to work on a headache and then after that, my left breast got incredibly itchy and while I thought that was odd, I also thought, "You know, that itchy sensation isn't exactly something new," and then I started to get hellishly paranoid that I have what Izzy has and I started to get emotional about not being there for my kids and OMG, Tool Man can't even wash dishes after making supper so how is he ever going to live without me?!
And then I thought hey, if I get a Dead Denny and his perpetually erect nipples out of the chance, then what's a few baked on messes?
I know. Seriously, I am not that insensitive, nor do I use as many curse words that screamed through my vortex last night. Stabby foot pain can and will make you think and do a lot of crazy things. I am not, however, sure what a routinely itchy left breast will make you do, though. Except scratch a lot, and I hear you're not supposed to do that.
And so today, instead of an inspiring, uplifting, highly quotable post for the ages, you get this. You're welcome.
You'd also be welcome to come do my bidding today because, seriously, I'm going to be kicking it (note - not ACTUALLY kicking)(because of the sickly foot, remember?) like Jabba The Hutt, unmoving and talking gibberish, on my couch. While it's not necessary, we can discuss whether or not there's any chain yanking or dancing that will take place while you're in that Princess Leia slave girl get-up. You're welcome, indeed!