No Longer Kashrut*

I didn't spend the long weekend at the beach, as I am a pasty white blond with no need for melanoma.

I also can't swim. Not well, anyway.

The family and I, being inhabitants of a town-let just the other side of Nowhere (and ten miles outside Tarnation) spent our holiday weekend around the house. With petrol rapidly reaching $4 per gallon, it was probably in our best interest to stay near the domicile.

Unless we wanted to sell our organs on E-Bay, anyway.

We were, however, invited to a neighborhood cookout. Chachi, being the good neighbor, accepted the invitation and then told me what we were going to bring. Things usually work out that way around here. This time, however, we were not bringing eleventy-two dozen cookies or a smattering of the Crack Brownies. We were bringing soda. THAT is a difficulty I'm okay with.

Saturday finally arrived, and it was almost time to go down the road. Then the weirdest thing EVER happened.

I realized that it was too hot to wear jeans. Honestly, people? It is never too hot for me to wear jeans! I am The Cold One in the family. It could be 18 degrees; it could be 118 degrees. It really doesn't matter. I'm usually wearing a sweater and long pants. I think I've been this way pretty much forever, save the Summer of the Microwave Woman when I was pregnant with the Nooze. So obviously, this sudden realization of HOT OUTSIDE! took me by surprise.

I decided I'd wear Capri's.

Then I realized I needed to shave first, as I had been invited to dinner, not Sasquatch. So I ran to the bathroom and prepared to shave. To the knees only, though - since I was wearing Capri's, not short-shorts. [Those, quite frankly, would require a miracle, a day spa and possibly a narcotic...]

The first leg (left, of course!) went without a hitch. I was Sona smooth (okay, Bic stubbly) in no time at all. Then my right leg. Other than a few unexpected glitches (psoriasis, you butt head!), all seemed to be fine. Until I took my right leg down to place it on the floor...and grazed it on the edge of the tub.

Now I know y'all are sitting there rolling your eyes at the drama of it all, but really. Y'all? I saw stars.

Thankfully, Chachi was standing close by. [Pacing. And shaking his head. And muttering why do you wait until THE last second to stop and decide to shave your legs or check the back door or make sure the stove is off? We're supposed to be next door, not dotting your legs with my styptic pencil!]

Then he stopped, mid rant. And just looked at my foot. Then he exhaled sloooowly and said "Oh. WOW. HON." "Do you need to sit down? Does it hurt? WOW. Just. WOW."

Thing is? It didn't hurt. Nor did it throb. Or ache. Or...anything, really. I just felt REALLY light headed and slightly nauseous, without really understanding why. Until I looked at my pinkie toe. Then I nearly passed out.

Apparently, when I had 'grazed' the edge of the tub, my pinkie toe had taken the brunt of the hit. Right on the corner of the tub. Thanks to psoriasis, my fingernails and toenails are extremely sensitive. They tend to do things like peel and crack and get ridges.

They also, apparently, like to split right down the middle. As they are leaders, they like the appendage to follow suit. As a result, my pinkie toe is now less like a pinkie toe and more like...uh...a cloven hoof.

I suppose that any normal person would have packed it in and headed to the ER. I think we've assessed that, quite frankly, I am not that kind of person. As a result, we numbed it with antibiotic with pain relief and threw a band aid on it. Then sneakers.

I also took pain meds.

We still went to the cookout. I am so, so, so glad that I did.

Even if part of my toe is now falling off.

*I don't chew my cud.