Pickles & Dimes

We got home late last night from the Twins game and were both looking forward to falling asleep as soon as our heads hit the pillow. As I got ready for bed in the upstairs bathroom, Jason went downstairs and was ambushed by the washing machine, stubbing his right pinky toe so hard it brought him to his knees. He told me later he had yelled in pain and called out for me, but I didn’t hear him because I was washing my face. And then I was preoccupied by the sight of Abby deliberately dodging behind the couch to horf up two piles of regurgitated cat food right between two cat-hair tumbleweeds and an angry house centipede. Her timing is impeccable.

After Jason hobbled upstairs and we looked at his toe, it was clear it was broken. And - glah. The sight of his toe all puffy and bright pink and not quite as straight as it should be - gross. And then he kept insisting on poking and prodding it and trying to push it one way or the other and pointing out the weird clicking noise it was making, all the while hissing in pain.

And then? This morning he stuffed his foot into a tennis shoe because he drives forklifts at work and sandals are not an option. I can’t wait to see what his toe looks like tonight. It’ll probably be as big as my head.

I told him I would buy him a cane to hobble around with and decorate the top of it with a serpent’s head, but he didn’t seem interested. That’s too bad, because now he can’t wear the eye patch I planned to buy him to complete the ensemble.

You know that song? The one that starts with the heavy guitar riff at the beginning? I think it was in a movie, you know the one? The one with the pivotal moment where the actors look at each other with shocked knowledge on their faces and start running frantically to prevent some apocalyptic event from happening? And then the music kicks in, DUNDUN DUN DUNDUNDUNDUNND? You know it?

Well, it’s been in my head for DAYS. And I don’t know what it is. I was in a noisy restaurant when I heard it a few weeks ago, and the song was ending and I didn’t catch any lyrics to do a Google search and it’s been driving me NUTS.

Now days later, I’ll be at work or outside watering flowers or in some other similarly quiet spot and that damn guitar riff will come skidding into my empty head, shoving aside all other rational thought and dreams of bacon, and I’ll think, “What is that song?”

I feel like it’s on the tip of my tongue, the edge of my brain canyon, the cusp of my bicuspids. It’s RIGHT THERE, but instead of pulling on the door to mental freedom and recognition, it’s pushing.

What IS it?

(Besides maddening, obviously.)

EDITED TO ADD: I don’t expect anyone to answer me, as 1) I can give you NO help at all about the song other than the fact that a man was singing, and 2) I cannot sing, hum, whistle or ANYTHING in tune. So instead, just tell me about a time you had a song stuck in your head that drove you nuts until you finally figured out what it was.

I had the day off from work yesterday, and per my habit, tried to cram 417 activities into 8 hours. It was one of those perfect summer days, where I did some gardening, shopping (Joann Fabrics, I can’t quit you!), and lunched with Jason. When I got home, I read and knitted, and lint-rolled Abby while Sunny pointed out house centipedes by chattering at them until I could mash them with a paper towel. Then I tried out a new chicken recipe that was fantastic and delicious and super easy (it involved bacon bits, naturally). And then the Twins beat the White Sox. Perfect.

This morning we went running and as soon as we stepped outside, the humid air greeted me by wrapping itself around my windpipe and squeezing hello. I ran my fastest mile yet and felt wonderful, despite the fact that a fat black cloud of gnats was circling me the entire time like a flock of miniature buzzards. When we walked home and watered the flowers, I sprayed myself full-bore in the face - twice - because 1) it felt like my overheated head was going to explode into fiery shrapnel all over the daylilies, and 2) the goddamn effing GNATS. And then Jason said, “Let’s feed the birds while we’re out here,” and I got all crabby in my head for a second because, “Hey, why not? I’ve only had 13 gnats fly into my eyeball, what’s another dozen?” and hurriedly slapped suet cakes into the feeders while muttering the f-word under my breath and punching myself in the head to get rid of the EFFING GNATS. The upside? Hopefully, more birds will stop by to eat the birdseed. AND THE GNATS.

Remember The Thing? Well, I decided to hide him in Jason’s golf bag. So I brought The Thing into the garage and deposited him into a pocket with golf balls and then tried to look nonchalant and busy as Jason walked into the garage unexpectedly. And then later, at 3 in the morning as Abby was using my stomach as a bounce house, I thought, “Hey, I don’t remember Jason having a Magic 8 ball golf ball.” And then I realized I had hidden The Thing in my golf bag. And Jason got up before I did and went golfing before I could make the switch. Stupid. And then later, I told him about my gaffe, not realizing I still could’ve hidden it there. Again - stupid.

Hey, this never happens: I keep thinking today is Monday, but it’s already Tuesday. HAHAHHAHAHAHA. Ahem.

Seriously, is it? What if I have yummy leftover fajitas for lunch? What then?

A coworker brought a foster dog into work today. I want her. She’s a pit bull and gorgeous. The coworker told everyone to approach her slowly, as she was in a house where she didn’t get any interaction or socialization, and as a result, she’s scared of everything. I offered her my hand and sat down, and after a few minutes, she came over and started licking my face. According to the coworker, I have “an aura” that dogs like. Ha ha - joke’s on her. I’m a cat person!

We had dinner last night with my two aunts. One of them had her old Cadillac break down after 267,000 miles. Turns out the bottom of her car rusted out and the engine dropped. Now she’ll have to drive her “older” car - a Buick with 394,000 miles. Good lord.

I really wish I could go back in time and tell my 8th grade self to pay more attention to learning how to sew in Home Ec rather than focusing all of my energy on making latch hook rugs featuring unicorns. For that skill is not useful at ALL when I try to fix a seam in Jason’s shirt and end up handing something back to him that resembles Frankenstein’s forehead.

I am now attempting to knit a sweater. Estimated completion date: July of Retirement Age. Send help.

Jason and I have been watching the UFC fights lately. I love hearing all the fighters’ nicknames, and last night, one of the guys had the nickname Jason “The Athlete” MacDonald. Um, isn’t that sort of obvious? I mean, that would be a fun nickname for an overweight accountant, but for a well-conditioned athlete? It should be something ironic or fearsome, like Jason “The Accountant” MacDonald. Am I right?

We’re going to the library this weekend. I haven’t been to a library in YEARS (Half Price Books owns my soul). Do you have any recommendations for me? I don’t like chick lit, but I’m open to pretty much anything else. Thanks!

Shauna, aka “The Blogger”