Tag: don’t judge me because of the UGG boots

Return of the Hot Toe Doctor

In previous episodes with the hot toe doctor:

First my toe was red.
Then my toe turned Elphaba green.
Next my toe became Papa Smurf blue.
After that my face turned beet red when the hot toe doctor told me he’d read about our relationship my visits to his office on this blog.

So.

Just when you thought it was safe to see me in a pair of peep-toe pumps . . . comes now the return of the hot toe doctor.

The appointment began with me waiting in the examination room wearing a pair of flat, black DV for Dolce Vita sandals with hammered nickel studs, recently purchased at Nordstrom for the occasion. (No I didn’t.) (Yes I did.) (No I didn’t.)

While I waited, I peeked in my chart and read the following:

Previous examination revealed tissue apoptosis, cuticle blebbing, and nail bed necrosis. Patient presents today with general whining about joint pain, swelling, redness, and blackness to the left hallux.

Okay. Fine. I looked up all of the fancy schmancy words in Wikipedia and made up the whole peeking-in-the-chart part. (Yes I did.) (No I didn’t.) (Yes I did.) Seriously. I couldn’t have looked in my chart if I wanted to because there is no chart. The hot toe doctor has all medical records, x-rays, and such like stored electronically/digitally on the medicalviewmcbobber laptop that he carries with him. Hawt, I know. He probably keeps my records electronically stored to make it easier for him to blog about me, right?

The rest of this story is the gospel truth. (Yes it is.) (Yes it is.) (Yes it is.) (Amen.)

The hot toe doctor entered the examination room with his signature smile and hair with the perfect amount of gel expertly applied as per usual and holding the medicalviewmcbobber laptop. His scrubs were blue this time, and last time they were green, to the best of my recollection. That’s probably neither here nor there, but I thought I’d mention it in case anyone was wondering what the hot toe doctor was wearing.

Doctor: “How are you today?”

Me [staring at hair with perfect amount of gel expertly applied]: “Huh?”

Doctor: “Well, let’s have you take off your smokin’ hot sandals.”

Me [wondering if someone taught him to apply hair gel like that and, if so, who, and also, whether I could get that person to teach Tom]: “Uh, okay, um, sure.”

Doctor: “So . . .”

Me [breaking my gaze from the hair with perfect amount of gel expertly applied, looking away, looking away, oh shit, not fast enough, staring at his signature smile now]: “Huh?”

Doctor: “What’s going on with your toe?”

Me: “Huh? Oh. Um, it hurts. Real bad. And it’s red right here. And maybe black on this side.”

Doctor: “Where does it hurt?”

Me: “In the joint. If anything at all, like even these cute sandals from Nordstrom, which I’m forced to wear because even my Croc sandals touch the joint in the wrong place, and forget about shoes because shoes put too much pressure on the toenail, except for UGG boots, which I’m sick of wearing all of the time. What was I saying?”

Doctor: “Joint pain?”

Me: “Oh, yeah. If anything at all even barely touches the side of the joint, the “F” word automatically flies out of my mouth, and we can’t have that.”

Doctor: “I told you last time that you can say the “F” word if you want.”

Me: “And I told you last time that I was trying not to say it. To make up for all the times I’ve said it frivolously. I’m trying to achieve karmic balance by not saying it in relation to anything to do with this toe business.”

The hot toe doctor began caressing examining my big toe. Then he pressed on the joint.

Me [standing up and hopping away]: “F#@k! F#@k that hurts! F#@k karmic balance. F#@k!”

Doctor: “There seems to be some inflammation in the joint.”

Me [ooo, shiny, getting distracted from the intense pain by looking at hair with perfect amount of gel expertly applied]: “Um, okay, well, pain and redness, and, um, well, so, that’s inflammation? Yes, okay. Don’t touch it again because . . . .” [getting distracted again]

Doctor: “I think we need to address the inflammation.”

Me: “Address? What does this mean, this address? And how is this joint pain related to the previous toenail problem, which toenail problem actually came after the toe problem in the first place? Remember? First there was toe pain and redness, in the toe. Then there was toenail pain and greenness, in the toenail. Now there’s toe pain and redness, in the toe, again. I get that “everything’s connected” and stuff. But how? How are these things connected?”

Doctor: [caressing studying the toe and toenail] “I’m not sure, but we’ve addressed the toenail as best we can for now. Let’s see if we can relieve the pain and inflammation in the joint with a cortisone injection.”

Me: “An injection? Into the joint? With a needle? Into the painful and inflamed joint?”

Doctor: “Yes. Go ahead and get up on the table.”

Me: “You realize that I’m going to have to say the “F” word again, right? Probably multiple times even?”

Doctor: “I told you to say it as much as you want.”

He left the room to get the syringe, and I reached into my purse for my iPhone boyfriend [to comfort me] [what?], and got up on the examination table.

A few moments later, the hot toe doctor returned, armed and dangerous with a syringe.

He gave me a blindfold sprayed Lidocaine on my toe, and then fired inserted the needle.

Me: “Ow! Ow! Okay then. F#@k. F#@k. F#@kity f#@k! That f#@king hurts!”

Just when I thought I couldn’t take it any longer, I ordered him to stand down he removed the needle.

Doctor: “Hold out your foot. I’m going to caress you some more apply a bandage now.”

Me [staring at hair with perfect amount of gel expertly applied]: “Okay.”

Doctor: “Let’s see if that calms things down in your toe. Call me if you have any questions or concerns, or come in immediately if you have any problems.”

Me [staring at hair with perfect amount of gel expertly applied]: “Um, yeah, okay.”

And then? The hot toe doctor and his hair with perfect amount of gel expertly applied, walked toward the door. He paused. He turned back toward me and smiled his signature smile.

Doctor: “Keep me posted. I really want to know what the f#@k is going on with your toe.”

He really said that. (Yes he did.) (Yes he did.) (Yes he did.)

She Didn’t Start the Fire

After reading this post on Sam’s blog, that she says she wrote after this post on my blog got her thinking, I got to thinking about the time that I set my friend Roxanne’s kitchen on fire. But really it should have been this post on Jamie’s blog that got me thinking because I set Roxanne’s kitchen on fire when I was helping her move.

I came over to her house one morning to help Roxanne pack her china and crystal, which she really should never have trusted me with in the first place because I am not an experienced packer by any stretch of the imagination. I have no idea what possessed me to tell Roxanne that I could help her pack anything, much less her most valuable housewares, except that I really just wanted to be helpful, and, come now, how hard could packing crystal and china be anyway? And it wouldn’t have been hard at all if I had not picked the stovetop to lay down the newspapers in which I was wrapping Roxanne’s crystal. I may have passed the California bar examination on my very first try, but laying several sheets of newspaper across a stovetop is an act that could only be perpetrated by a dumbass. Hello, my name is Cheri, and having admitted to my condition, I believe I am now entitled to call myself a recovering dumbass.

Somehow or other I inadvertently bumped the knob and turned on the stove. The burner then set the newspaper on fire, the very newspaper that I’d just finished wrapping around the crystal vase that Roxanne had just finished telling me was her favorite. My first plan was to drop the blazing thing on the tile floor and stomp on the newspaper, but, of course, that would have broken the vase. So I went with plan two. Start giggling. After I began to giggle, plan number three was put into action. I said a curse word. Plan number four was up next, no doubt provoked by the giggling that had rapidly become hysterical laughter. I suddenly had to pee real bad, the kind of pee that happens to a kid who’s just found the perfect place to conceal herself during Hide-and-Seek. Roxanne started laughing too, making my urge to pee grow worse. Plan five, which I might add turned out to be the most effective overall for the problem at hand, was that I carried the vase-shaped torch over to the sink. I set the flaming, paper-wrapped package down in the basin and turned on the water. Just then the smoke alarms in the kitchen went off because, um, yeah, there was still newspaper burning on the stove. I moved that burning pile of paper over to the sink too. Roxanne and I opened windows and turned on her ceiling fans. Then we cleaned up the sooty, ashy mess. I asked Roxanne to promise not to tell anyone, but, of course, I really didn’t mind if she did because it meant that anyone who heard the story would never ask me to help her move.

So, Jamie, are you really all packed or do you need any help?

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