I suppose that I should begin at the beginning, as most all things do.
The day started with me deciding that my tree trunks would need some serious de-barking before going to the knee doctor. So I hopped into the shower with my brand spanky new razor and went to it. This would not have been a problem were it not for the fact that I did not have my contact lenses in place, nor were my glasses anywhere near my big fat face as I hacked away.
I ended up with what can only be politely referred to as crop circles. Yup. The pattern of smooth shiny legs contrasted with the pattern of stubbly neglected legs will have scientists guessing for ages. At least I'm pretty sure. I didn't see said crop circles until I was in the exam room and had hiked my pedal pushers up so that the nurse could get a good look at my poor knee before hauling me off to the x-ray room.
All she said was "Oh. My."
I'd love to tell you that the orthopedist was a kindly old man with sensible shoes and wire rimmed glasses, but the guy I saw was about as warm and fuzzy as a bowl full of lime jell-o. Now, it's not that I have anything against lime jell-o per se. As a matter of fact, I happen to love lime jell-o. But in an orthopedist? Not so much.
All I heard after the x-ray and a cursory exam was "For a woman that is the approximate size of a small condominium, I'm surprised that you have any knees left at all", and my particular favorite "Yeah. You're young, but you might as well prepare yourself for the fact that you're going to need artificial knees pretty soon."
And then he stuck a ridiculously long needle into me and sent me to the check-out desk with a ridiculously big bill.
So the long and short of it is that I have arthritis and a bone spur on the inside of my left knee, and I've probably also torn the be-daylights out of the ACL, MCL, AT&T, VIP, and any other series of three letters that means "Big fat sweaty girls should really not dance about their homes in their underpants without considering the long term consequences to their lower weight-bearing parts." If I was still in New Jersey and was still swearing, this is right about the time that I would issue a succinct f*** from my big fat potty mouth and just get on with it. As is it, you'll get a damn, drat, and phooey, and I'll fret over this for the next two weeks while we see if this bloody shot worked.
But I would like to go on the record right here and now and firmly attest that the only thing artificial going into me will be the packet of Truvia I put in my coffee each morning, and the lovely new stripper boobs that I intend to get as soon as I can coax my current boobs from my shoes. (What can I say? Nature and this whole getting older thing has NOT been kind to the girls.)
The second highlight of my day was when Aunt Chrissy and I went grocery shopping, and I elected to use the scooter-thingie so as not to bitch and moan and complain about how much walking around a grocery store hurt my knee. So there I was in the produce section....minding my very own business, when I innocently asked Aunt Chrissy to pass me a package of celery hearts. She did so, but not before muttering "If you have to have your knee replaced, you damn well better hire a freakin' nurse", and then I got all weepy and felt like a boob because I just happened to be sitting there thinking "Gee, this really sucks, and if I have to have this damn knee replaced, I better damn well hire a freakin' nurse", but then I saw the look on Aunt Chrissy's face and decided to just suck it up and motor onward.
Let's just say that methinks I've worn out the whole "I'm pitiful and need your help, dear little sissy" routine, and I had better learn to just suck it right up.
(Now here is where I am supposed to tell you that Aunt Chrissy really is the very best caretaker a girl could ask for and that she would never lock me in an attic and/or refer to me as Baby Jane or any other creepy old movie character that gets gas-lighted by exasperated relatives. She just had a moment. Yeah. That's it. She had a moment and she is more that entitled to do so.)
We rounded the corner and hit the deli counter and that was when we were made aware of some jackass on his cell phone over in the wine store bitching about the fact that people kept cutting in front of him at the deli counter.
Funny, but he wasn't AT the deli counter. He was in the damn wine store.
So I ordered everything I could think of to really tork the guy off because he had to wait so long for me to get my thinly sliced Virginia ham and yellow American cheese, thank you very much, and I heard our lovely deli lady say "You know, I'm not sure what that gentleman's problem is. I tried to wait on him about three times, but he just kept walking away to talk on his cell phone." So Aunt Chrissy and I proceeded to the butcher store (all of these places are in the same damn place, mind you, but I love the fact that our grocery store has "Ye' Olde' Wine Shoppe" and "Ye' Olde' Butcher Shoppe" etc etc.), when I hear the cell phone guy hollering at the deli lady!
Now please understand that by this point in time I have firmly committed myself to the scooter, and I'm guessing that since it was hot in the store and I had on polyester stretch pants, NOBODY needed to see me stand up from the damn thing, but stand up I did and I even put my hands on my hips for effect as I marched right smack over to the cell-phone guy and said (in kind of a screetchy voice I have to say) PARDON ME SIR, BUT DID MY SISTER AND I TAKE YOUR PLACE IN LINE?!! DID WE?!! HUH?!! HUH?! DID WE?! WELL, IF WE DID, PLEASE ALLOW ME TO BE THE VERY FIRST TO APOLOGIZE TO YOU (and here's where I muttered "your highness" under my breath) BECAUSE WE WOULD NEVER INTEND TO HAVE OFFENDED YOU IN ANY WAY.
Stupid prat just sputtered something like "Oh, no, it wasn't you....having a bad day...not necessary to apologize....etc. etc. etc." as he practically ran through the seafood section "Ye' Olde" Seafood Shoppe" to get the hell away from the crazy fat lady in polyester pants who was standing next to a grocery scooter like it was some kind of souped up motorcycle.
I love a good bar fight in the middle of the grocery store.
The evening ended with me settled in the Happy Chair with my stitching and a little Bull Durham on the TeeVee for company. It's not that I actually really particularly like this movie or anything, but the scenes with Kevin Costner dancing around in a robe and tube socks and then painting Susan Sarandon's toe nails and then the whole bathtub scene and then.....
Well, let's just say that I sat through that whole damn entire movie waiting for those scenes, but tragically, I did not realize that I was watching this movie on some type of man-channel that only shows things related to sporting events, fast cars, or Viagra.
Scene: The spinster glances up and notices that the movie is approaching all of the "good parts", so she stashes her stitching to the side, pats her litttle dog to let him know it's time to cover his eyes, perches her stitchy glasses on top of her head and then.....
I SET MY GD HAIR ON FIRE AGAIN.
And the worst freakin' part of the whole entire thing is that this stupid man-channel DIDN'T EVEN SHOW ANY OF THE GOOD PARTS THAT I WAS SO DESPERATELY IN NEED OF THAT I FORGOT TO TURN OFF MY DAMN STITCHY LAMP BECAUSE WE ALL KNOW THAT WHEN I SIT UNDER MY DAMN STITCHY LAMP WITH MY STITCHY MAGNIFIERS PERCHED ON TOP OF MY HEAD I SET MY HAIR ON FIRE.
So, Mr. Costner, if you're reading this, please send a check payable to the Spinster Stitcher for a) some new sitchy glasses that won't melt themselves into a clotted heap of plastic and then attach themselves to my already sparse sprouts of hair on top of my head and b) the resulting little tiny hair extensions that I am going to have to ask for tomorrow when I bolt into the salon asking if there is anybody there who knows how I can continue to rock the 80's bangs with only four strands of hair left on my head.
Don't cry for me, Argentina. You'll be happy to know that Stewey took prompt action this time and peed on the drapes before heading under the bed. Damn dog.
I have made tremendous progress on Daisy Chain, but will you forgive me if I don't get up of my big fat burnt heiney and go find the camera and then take a really bad photo to share with you? Just this once, please feel free to use your imagination as I close up shop for the night, grab an ice pack or two, and head for the big girl sleigh bed.
Trust me. It's been a day.