Check out my Franken-toe:
About two months ago, my big toe started to bother me. The toe felt a little sensitive and tender. Sometimes, if I went on a long walk and wore the wrong shoes, it hurt. The toe was a little red and the toenail looked irritated, but I decided to ignore the situation. I have a tendency to overreact to injuries, and I did not want my inner hypochondriac to get the upper hand.
But last week, my toe developed a new symptom. I'll spare you the gory details, but let's just say it involves the word "ooze." Said oozing got my attention.
Yesterday, I had an appointment with a podiatrist. I felt like such a wimp because the toe did not look that bad. I even apologized to the nurse as he set me up in my room! The podiatrist was probably going to laugh at my toe and tell me to stop being a hypochondriac.
Instead, the podiatrist said I had an ingrown toenail and the infected nail had to be removed. Yay! Hallelujah! Validation! I was not overreacting. The toe needed medical attention!
I was very calm and relaxed for the procedure. The doctor gave me three or four shots to numb the toe. Then, he started to remove the toenail and SON OF A BITCH IT REALLY HURT. But, I was determined to be mature, so I just winced.
The doctor, however, noticed my "wince." (Okay, it was more like an "overdramatic grimace meant to get the doctor's attention.") He asked if I was feeling "pain or pressure." When I said it was quite painful, he said, "Why aren't you hollering and kicking? You need another shot." As he gave me another dose of something, he explained that sometimes the infection resists the numbing agent. (I'm sure he used a medical term, but I wasn't paying close attention seeing as he was sticking me with a needle and I don't like needles especially ones that are being stuck into my body).
The podiatrist started the procedure a second time, and again, HOLY CRAP IT REALLY HURT. The doctor decided to give the numbing agents a few more minutes to take effect. So I sat and waited (and started to sweat profusely from fear). The anticipation mae it feel like I was waiting for an amputation.
Finally, it was time for Take Three, and this time, I just felt a slight pressure. The podiatrist worked his magic, and now I have a heavily bandaged Franken-toe. I am under doctor's orders to rest my toe and eat lots of ice cream. (Well, he didn't say anything about ice cream, but I'm sure that was just an oversight).
Yay for Franken-toe! It makes me look like a total bad ass.
Benjamin Franklin was born 305 years ago today - sort of. He was actually born on January 6, 1705, but then the entire calendar was overhauled and his birthay was moved to January 17, 1706. How unsettling would it be to have your date of birth changed?
For his birthday, I tried to get my favorite founding father a card... but Hallmark does not seem to make any cards to mark a historical figure's 305th birthday. I don't understand. Hallmark makes cards to mark every possible occasion (including some holidays that Hallmark invented itself) - shouldn't there be specialty birthday cards for the founding fathers?
Instead of a card, I will wish Old Ben "many happy returns!" right here on my blog. (I'm sure Ben F. would have been a prolific blogger if he lived until the present day, so this is fitting - in a weird way).
This post is about this thingee:
I'm not certain what it's proper name is - heck, I don't even know if it has a name - but let's call it "the BBQ Igniter." If you pull the trigger, a flame ignites from the end of the black tube. It's basically the mother of all matches. I use it to light candles because I'm lazy that way.
This particular BBQ Igniter is dead. When I shake it, I can hear some fluid sloshing around, and if I pull the trigger, it smells like smoke; but it no longer produces a flame.
So what am I supposed to do with it?
Obviously, it's garbage. I'm not going to bronze or frame the dead BBQ Igniter. But how do I get rid of it?
I'm not trying to be cute or clever. I know that garbage goes in the garbage can. But although broken, the BBQ Igniter was designed for one purpose: to start fires. It still emits a little smoke when I pull the trigger. I'm not putting this thing in my trash can! What if it starts to work again? Oh sure, it's broken now, but my broken hair dryer recently came back from the dead. Maybe this is a zombie BBQ Igniter, and it will awaken when I bury it in the trash can. Then, what if the the weight of the garbage forces the trigger down, thereby sparking a flame? I could burn down the entire neighborhood!
I guess I could wait until trash day and then quickly toss the Zombie BBQ Igniter in the trash can when I hear the garbage truck. Then, the BBQ Igniter would never have a chance to ignite my trash.
But the guilt would destroy me.
I would always wonder: where is the BBQ Igniter? Buried in a landfill? Is it really safe?
Then, if a fire starts in a landfill, I will know that the BBQ Igniter is to blame. And knowing my luck, the BBQ Igniter won't spark some tiny flame that is easily managed with a fire extinguisher. It will create an inferno that captures the nation's attention, forces thousands to evacuate, and threatens a wildlife sanctuary for baby pandas.
There will be an inquiry, and the fire investigator will gravely announce that the fire of the century was started by a broken BBQ Igniter. The fire investigator will hold up the evil device, and though it is charred and melted, I will recognize it immediately. No one will be able to trace the BBQ Igniter back to me, but I'll come forward and be sentenced to a lifetime in a federal security prison.
ALL BECAUSE I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO PROPERLY DISPOSE OF THE BBQ IGNITER.
I cannot be haunted by these possibilities. So, instead of throwing out the BBQ Igniter, I will stash it in our garage's darkest corner. Someday, we will sell this house and move. When we move, I'll "forget" to pack the BBQ Igniter. Muhahaha! Let the future owners of my house figure out how to deal with the damn thing.
I have two confessions to make.
Confession One: I can identify the sound of my neighborhood's UPS truck with 100% accuracy. I know the sound of that engine better than I know the sound of my own breathing. Once I hear the UPS engine, I can immediately discern whether the truck is (a) speeding down the street towards its next delivery or (b) making a stop on my block. If the truck is stopping, I can predict, with 95% accuracy, whether or not the UPS guy is delivering a package to my house.
Now it is time for my second and truly pathetic confession...
Confession Two: A moment before I started typing this blog entry, I heard the UPS truck stop in front of my house. Then, I heard the tell-tale thud of a package being left at my doorstop. I am so excited. I LOVE PACKAGES FROM UPS!!! I want to open the door and claim my package NOW, but I am forcing myself to wait five minutes because I am a mature adult with an exciting and interesting life. But really, I can't stand the idea that I'm sitting here, on my leather chair, and the package is out there, shivering on the front porch.
If I'm going to be completely honest, I must confess that I am only writing this blog entry to help myself pass the time before I am allowed to retrieve the newly delivered cardboard box.
Yay! Time to get my new box! I hope it's from Amazon!
And I've reached a new low.
Have you ever been at the store, and you see something, like Ziploc bags, and you think, "Oh, we need more Ziploc bags, I better stock up." So you buy three boxes of Ziploc bags, and when you get home, you discover there are already four boxes of Ziploc bags in the cupboard.
Then, three weeks later, you are the store and again, you spot the Ziploc bags. You think, "Oh, we need more Ziploc bags, I better stock up." So you buy four more boxes of Ziploc bags, and now, as far as plastic baggies are concerned, you are set until the end of time.
This happens to me at least two or three times a year. Last summer, it was sunblock. If you looked in our bathroom cabinet, you would assume we are preparing for a three-year sojourn to the equator.
Recently, it's been cough drops. I can't stop buying cough drops. I'm like Pavlov's dog - when I see a display of cough drops, I feel compelled to buy a few bags. Nathan and I could have whooping cough for the rest of 2012, and we will only begin to make a dent in our cough drop supply.
Who needs sunblock?
If I ever write my memoirs, a long chapter will be devoted to my tortured relationship with caffeine. I first became addicted to caffeine in high school thanks to a Pepsi machine located near my locker. Since then, I have quit and then become readdicted to caffeine at least a dozen times.
Last summer, before I got married, I controlled my addiction and was down to one can of diet soda every morning. During our honeymoon, I stayed clean. Who needs caffeine in Maui? Then, we returned to Pasadena and normal life. Things went to hell in a hand basket.
By December, I was imbibing at least 100 ounces of diet soda every day. (Probably more). I know, from experience, that when I am living a caffeine-free lifestyle, I glow with energy and health. Caffeine-free Courtney is a much better person than Caffeinated Courtney. For example, when I'm consuming too much caffeine, I suffer from debilitating periods and PMS. When I'm clean, the PMS disappears.
There are two ways to quit caffeine: cold turkey or gradually. I am not brave enough for the cold turkey approach, so I cut back to 24 ounces of diet soda every day. In a couple of weeks, when my body has adjusted to the caffeine reduction, I'll start to wean myself, ounce by ounce. By the end of February, I should be decaffeinated.
But right now, things completely suck.
Even though I'm still consuming a significant amount of caffeine, my body is going through some serious freaking caffeine withdrawal. It feels like I'm getting the flu. I have body aches and I'm exhausted, as if I ran a marathon without a day of training. I am dehydrated, as if I've been crawling through a desert for days. Two nights ago, I woke up at 3 a.m. in a cold sweat and for about five minutes, all color drained from my face.
I have had some headaches, but miraculously, they are manageable.
This article about caffeine withdrawal has been uber-comforting. In the comments, readers post about their symptoms, including depression, fatigue, body aches, upset stomachs, joint pain, restless legs, fevers, and nausea. When I woke up at 3 a.m. and felt like I was going to die, I read through the comments of the article and confirmed this is just caffeine withdrawal, which sucks, but no need to go to the ER.
Right now, I am suffering, but my physical ailments are actually encouraging. If the caffeine withdrawal makes me feel this crappy, then what the hell was the caffeine doing to my body? I'm excited for the morning that I wake up and do not need a single sip of the poison.
We had breakfast this weekend at Clocker's Corner at the Santa Anita racetrack. It's like two activities for the price of one: (1) you get to have a relatively nice restaurant breakfast; and (2) it's a trip to the racetrack, minus the betting.
The breakfast seating is right next to the racetrack. It is quite a scene. I don't know what is more interesting to watch: the horses or the people. The horses race around the track, alone or in pairs. They gallop, canter, trot, walk and move at every speed in between. I could watch the horses for hours.
As for the breakfast crowd, there are jockeys, trainers, owners, reporters and professional gamblers. The jockeys are so small, and they wear their riding helmets even when they are mingling with the trainers and owners. As for everyone else, there are a lot of interesting mustaches and hats. Some people are dressed up, as if the Kentucky Derby is running that day; more people are grisled and look like they have led hard, hard lives.
This past Saturday morning, it was foggy. Usually, the San Gabriel Mountains watch over the racetrack, but the fog concealed the mountains entirely. Horses are beautiful to watch, and Nathan gave me a Flip video camera for Christmas - so I filmed some footage. If you want to experience breakfast at Clocker's Corner, just pour yourself a cup of coffee, fry some bacon and watch the video on repeat. (The video is just 25 seconds long, so you will probably have it memorized by your third sip of coffee).
