Waaaaah! Lesson learned at the bar this weekend: If you want your poor wee feet (shut up) to survive the 80’s party… you should probably have spent more than $9.00 on your tacky-ass shoes. But who can resist bright blue snakeskin?
So now I have a big ol’ rubbed-raw place on my right heel, and because I am a
horrible hypochondriac excellent medic, I have doused it with Triple Antibiotic ointment and swathed it in gauze and medical tape… and it spent the weekend wrapped up in an Ace bandage to cushion it. And Chuckweasel is on The List because he has not shown proper sympathy for wounds I received FOR HIS BENEFIT and he’ll be sorry when my poor footie falls plumb off.
Also, he once again tried to get me murdered by making me go out to the car and get his iPhone even though we had just had a zombie-hobo sighting in the parking lot (Chuckweasel said hobo, I said zombie — it was SHUFFLING, yo! — so we agreed on zombie-hobo and drove around the block until it left).
Other than the wounding and the attempted murder, the weekend was great, the bar was very busy, and I may have to add more titles to my Goddess-hood. I need one for Comforting Crying Women and one for She Who Is Beloved of the Gays. Although I’m beginning to think they may think I’m a drag queen… it’s happened before.