Sunday, June 8, 2014

Aging...Not So Gracefully

Remember when you were little and you mom would tell you to wait thirty minutes after eating before going swimming?  Otherwise you'd get stomach cramps and drown?  Did anybody really wait thirty minutes?  I don't think so.  Unless you had a mom with a stopwatch and some kind of weapon, i.e., belt, yardstick, wooden spoon, hair brush, or the dreaded "wire hanger"...the latter which has since become synonymous with Joan Crawford in Mommy Dearest..."NO. WIRE. HANGERRRRRRS!!!." you never really paid attention.  (I'm really glad Joan wasn't my mom.)

I never got a cramp.  In fact, I never knew of anyone who did, did you?  My eyes never stayed permanently crossed either.  AND my face never froze with my tongue stuck out at my bratty little brother.  Saying shit like that made kids not believe other stuff parents said that was true.  Really, how many times have you burnt the roof of your mouth or your tongue because you didn't believe "don't eat that, it's too hot"?  If they hadn't cried wolf with the other shit we might have believed them.

But the cramp thing...I never got a cramp when I was a kid.  I didn't start getting cramps in my feet until I became an adult.  It may have had something to do with walking around in platform sandals or some other such nonsense but whatever the reason, that's where I'm saying they started.

I get different kinds of cramps in my feet.  Sometimes they're in the top part between my second toe and my little toe.  They make my foot sort of flatten out in the toe area and my toes actually spread apart.  Very unnatural looking.

Cramps in the arch of my foot have the opposite effect on my toes.  They all try to move to center stage at the same time, some curling up, some curling down.  Oddly enough, my big toe is never involved in this mad dash to the middle.  Ms. Big Toe remains calm and secure in her place as the largest toe, causing me no pain, while the others vie for position as second toe...with little Miss Second Toe pushing back against the others.  Fortunately for me, the toe battle usually lasts less than a minute before the losers give up and return to their delegated positions.  But once they start fighting, they end up having to try again, and again, and again.  I think the fight is over and can walk like a normal human being again...and then they start fighting.  Fuckers.

The cramps I get in the ball of my foot are like being pierced with a very large needle with little electrical shockey feelings pulsing from the center.  These, while extremely painful and rendering me a unipod, don't force my toes into unnatural positions.  I am, however, rendered immobile for the duration.

I get so mad when I get a cramp in my foot.  Other than swearing profusely, I have no ritual or remedy for dealing with foot cramps.  I guess the swearing is kind of a ritual but it does nothing to remedy the cramp.  I drop F bombs, on myself, which only fuels my rage.

I've tried rubbing them out.  No go.  I found I'm Queen of the Wimps when it comes to inflicting further pain on myself.  It hurts so fucking bad trying to force a cramped foot back into its normal pose.  I've tried putting my foot on top of a tennis ball and rolling over it with my foot when I get arch cramps.  Still no go.  I found out the hard way not to do this when the cramp is in the ball of my foot because it feels like I'm shoving the needle directly into the nerve endingings. Triple F bombs filled the air when I tried this.

Leg cramps, while still painful, are usually a little easier for me to deal with.  At least I can walk around while I wait for them to relax.  Okay, maybe not "walk"...more of a hop/hobble combo.  A hopple.  Sort of like Grand Pappy Amos on the Real McCoys...who always had a hitch in his git along.

So the other night I'm sleeping all nice and cozy when for no fucking reason, the muscle alongside my left shin bone starting cramping.  Really bad.  I flung  myself out of bed and started hoppling around, and get this...I actually heard myself moaning in pain.  WTF???  I was actually hoppling around moaning out myself.   Do I do this all the time and never noticed before?  Do I do it in front of other people?  How fucking embarrassing is that?  

I know I grunt alot...especially getting out of the car or off the couch.  Unlike old man noises like farts...for which the nearest dog or cat gets blamed, I call them old woman noises because I don't remember making them when I was younger. Although it could be that since my memory is going I just don't remember making them when I was younger.  Now I wonder how many other things I'm blaming on my advanced age that have been a part of me all along but I just don't remember?

What's up with the whole moaning thing anyway.  You read all the time about people moaning in agony.  Why, when we have the ability to form words, do we emit incoherent soundage?  I can see why a baby would do it or a mute, but a person with basic language skills should be able to say "ow", or "ouch", or "fuck that hurts".  Don't you think?  It probably comes from some reptilian part of our brain...the part that gets blamed for all inexplicable behavior.

Rambling on and on, and getting sidetracked is another thing I'm blaming on advanced age...

So in the midst of my hoppling and moaning, I bend over and for some reason notice that the second toe on my right foot has a wrinkle in it.  Really?  Wrinkled toes too?  I thought maybe it was a piece of lint and tried to brush it off, but it stayed.

In order to confirm this latest bodily insult, I needed visual verification.  Since I can't see shit close up without them, I donned the nearest pair of reading glasses. While I'm pleased to announce it wasn't a wrinkle I'm totally mortified to see that it's a long hair growing out of my toe.  WTF?????

I've never had hair growing there before.  How did it get there?  How long has it been there?  I've been wearing sandals since it got hot and never noticed it.  How many other people noticed it but were too polite to tell me?   Is it a little lost soul who's migrated south for the winter?  Like the migratory chin hairs who ventured south and liked it so much they decided to stay?  Is my future destined to be finding migratory pubes where they aren't supposed to be too?

Hoppling to the bathroom to get tweezers I make quick work of the little migratory menace.  The sad truth is in addition to all the other aging insults I'm forced to endure, I've become a fucking hairy footed's the stoopidist thing.

Sunday, June 1, 2014

Pre Game Show...For The Husband!!!!!

Hooray, it's not me this time.  I know it's really wrong, but I can't help chuckling (to myself of course) when I think about what's in store for the man of my dreams. I even feel a little guilty for thinking it's funny since it's something nobody wants to do.  I think I'm just so happy that it's not me.  So it's actually more of a sympathy laugh.   I mean it not like he doesn't know...this isn't his first Game Day prep.

Yes, during The Husband's last yearly physical, his good ol' Doc referred him to the Happy Butt Doctor for a colonoscopy.  Don't you think that might be a good office name for the anally inclined physicians in this field?  It would show a sense of humor about the hole ordeal...notice the little play on words...hole instead of whole?  Get it?  Sometimes I just crack myself up...I'm so mature.

He got the referral papers in the mail a few days ago and sent them in.  I was a little puzzled because they had him scheduled to see a guy with D.O. after his name instead of M.D.  Don't you think that's kinda weird?  I always thought DO stood for an Osteopath and I thought they were just a Chiropractor with an M.D.   Seems kinda odd to me that an Osteopath would be performing butt doctor duties, doesn't it?  I told The Husband to find out about this little oddity when he went in for his office visit.  It probably stands for Doctor's Orderly. Some poor schmo workin' for minimum wage doing the real Dr.'s dirty work.

When The Husband came home from the office "consultation"(which is really just an anal violation pep talk and some way the medical system has come up with to get yet another fee) I forgot to ask about the DO thing.  I didn't get the anal violation pep talk before my Game Day and when I stopped to think about it I have to say I'm not sorry about that.  I'd feel really weird talking to some strange man and listening to him explain how he planned to violate me anally.  Better not to know the stranger behind that mask.

So last night The Husband hands me his "instructions for pending doom".  Starting in the morning, no solid food and only clear liquids.  This is a problem because The Husband likes his lunch.  He's afraid he might waste away going one whole day without lunch.  I'm pretty sure he has enough girthage to last him a day or two but I wisely keep this thought to myself.  Anyway, I asked him about the DO thing.

Me: " So did you find out if the guy's an Osteopath?"

The Husband:  "He's a doctor.  Some kind of Colo-Rectal surgeon."

Me:  (Noticing The Husband is studiously avoiding eye contact...) "You didn't ask, did you?"

The Husband:  "No, I forgot...but I saw some kind of sign on the wall."

Story of my fuckin' life...

This kinda surprises me because most old heterosexual dudes are pretty picky about anyone without proper credentials messin' with their hiney.  They want to know it's really a necessary medical procedure they're signin' up for and not some fun filled extra credit class for med students.

Not so with Crazy D, the hair guy...who may be just a teensie weenie bit homophobic.  He told me when he had his colonoscopy, he was laying on the table, still awake, and one of the male personnel took a pre-moistened towelette and wiped his ass.  Crazy D was totally horrified by this.  He couldn't believe the guy did this while he was still awake.  Honestly, I can't believe that I was actually talking about colonoscopies with my hair guy.  And we were hysterical about it. It's such an old person thing...talking about the latest thing going wrong with your old decrepit bodies.

Back to the Pre Game Day 2:00 pm, he starts drinking his Prompt a Poop juice, which being the dutiful wife I am, I picked up at the pharmacy.

I have a little gripe about that.  When I picked up my Prompt a Poop Juice, it didn't come carefully concealed in a paper bag.  Noooo, they handed me the plastic jug containing what I'm fairly certain is powdered excrement out in the open so everyone who saw me knew I was about to be anally violated and was willingly preparing for said violation.  The Husband's bottle of Prompt a Poop came in a paper bag so nobody knew what I was carrying out of the store.  Is this a new procedure?  Or did somebody fall down on the job and forget to put mine in a plain brown wrapper???

Just to be clear...I'm only guessing that the jug contains powdered excrement simply because when hydrated as per the directions it tastes like shit...or what I'd imagine shit to taste like if I ever had the inclination to eat the best of my knowledge, I've never actually tasted least not intentionally.

Even before I knew there'd be a bag covering the jug, I made sure the clerk knew it wasn't for me when I stepped up to the pharmacy counter..."I'm here to pick up a prescription for MY HUSBAND"...she only smiled at me.  I may have shouted the "for my husband" part a little bit.  She probably thought I was lying.

The night before he was supposed to drink his excrement cocktail, The Husband was pretty sure he'd be able to work the whole day.  When he told me this, I looked at him like he'd suddenly grown a second head...

Me:  "Are you fucking kidding me????"

The Husband:  "No, why not?"

Me: "You're gonna go to work and shit your brains out intentionally?  How gross is that?"

I'm still not sure if he was serious or not...he likes to say things he knows I'll get all jacked up about. It works...I can't believe I still fall for it almost every time.

He also thought he was going to be able to go to work after his "procedure".

Me:  "You can't do that.  Read your instructions for pending doom.  They say you have to have a ride when you show up or they won't do it.  So you'd waste a whole day shitting your brains out for nothing.  Then you'd have to do it all over again."

The Husband: " I have a plan.  I'll park my car at Pep Boys and take a taxi to the hospital.  When I get done, I'll take a taxi back to my car and go to work."

Me:  "No."

The Husband:  "Why not?  They won't know."

Me:  "No."

He starts laughing at me being so adamant and keeps egging me on about it.  He loses...this time. Truth be told, I don't think he was serious...just another example of The Husband yanking my chain.

He couldn't finish the whole jug of Prompt a Poop but apparently he got enough down to do the job.

The next morning bright and early we went to the hospital.  I had visions of going in until he was checked in and then leaving to go shopping.  The hospital staff were so efficient though that I didn't even have time to go to WalMart.  They said I could go back with him while they prepped him for his procedure and it seemed kinda wrong to put a trip to WalMart before giving moral support to the man of my dreams preparing for anal violation.  Once they had him prepped and ready to go they wheeled him away and I barely had time to walk to the car to get my Kindle and read a couple chapters of Adam Carolla's new book before they were calling me into the recovery room.

It's a funny book and I thought I'd keep reading while I waited for the man of my dreams to awaken from his drug induced Twilight Sleep.  Alas, my plans were foiled by Chatty Cathy, the nurse assigned to him while he was in recovery...not the doll from the late fifties/early sixties.  Remember her?  And Tiny Tears?  And Betsy Wetsy?  And Patty Play Pal?  My mom always wanted me to play with dolls and I never really liked them...I was such a disappointment.

Chatty Cathy told me about her husband, her late parents, her husband living in Alaska, some of her health issues, some of her husbands health issues, the difference between different type of fiber supplements, and on, and on, and on. Then she hands me a little vial of water.

Me:  "What's this?"

Chatty Cathy:  "They're your husband's polyps."

Me:  "Are you giving them to me?????"

Chatty Cathy:  "Oh no.  They have to go to the lab but I thought you might want to see them."

I'm pretty sure I had a shocked look on my face and couldn't come up with a witty retort.  So I looked at them.  The polyps were barely visible in the water vial.  I don't know what I expected...something really gross I guess...but they were bright orange and as small as a poppy seed.  Who'd a thunk it?

Then she started telling me about The Husband's post anal violation instructions, and what to expect.  It's all written on the papers they give you but maybe she thought I couldn't read or something.  So she read them all aloud to I was five.

All I really wanted was for her to shut the fuck up so I could read my book...but what do I do?  I smiled, and nodded, and acted interested in what she was saying. Adam Carolla was on the chair waiting to make me laugh and I was forced to ignore him and smile, nod, and act interested in someone who was actually boring the hell out of me.  You'd think at my age I'd be able to somehow politely but firmly extract myself from situations like this, wouldn't you?  But noooooooo, I don't want to seem rude or be impolite.

By this time, The Husband was starting to open his eyes and spout gibberish.  So I figure I can focus my attention on him and ignore Chatty Cathy.  I start to talk to him.

Me:  "They found two polyps."

The Husband:  "They did?"

Chatty Cathy AKA Buttinski:  "Oh don't expect him to remember anything you're saying. The drugs they use are amnesiacs.  They make it so they don't remember anything."  

Me:  "Oh."

Me In My Head:  "I know what amnesiac means just shut the fuck up and go away so I can get back to Adam."

Sometimes I really want the "Me In My Head" to speak for the real "Me"'s the stoopidist thing.