Monday, October 30, 2006

it ain't gonna hurt nobody, to get on down...

Kate, Alex, Mikey and I headed up to a friend’s cabin on the Russian River this weekend for a little R&R. On the drive up, Kate couldn’t shut up about the Rutherford Grill. Apparently, she once enjoyed the greatest French dip sandwich she’s ever had “in her life.” On and on, she went, describing the perfect meat, to soft bun, the glorious dip. After a dozen phone calls, we finally got the front desk and inquired as to directions. Turns out, hostesses don’t like to give complicated directions at the height of the lunch rush, nor do they like to offer opinions on how far out of our way we’d have to go to get a French dip sandwich.
The Rutherford Grill would have to wait.
We made in up to our friend Rich’s cabin in 2 hours, and promptly headed out to go wine tasting at a fabulous little winery, Davis Bynum. After several sassy tastes with our sassy wine pourer, we headed back to the cabin where Rich had planned on having some friends over for cocktails. We cracked open some wine and some big bottles of gin and dove in. Sitting out on the deck, the sun setting over the mountains, everything was perfect. We were having a marvelous time and were quite sloshed as we sat down to a late dinner.
Rich served up chicken pot pie as we drank and laughed and drank and laughed. We kicked up the music, kicked up the wine and headed out to the deck.
To dance.
Now, at this point, the evening starts to blur together. I was dancing with Alex, twisting with Mikey, twirling Kate and getting dipped by Rich. I wasn’t really paying attention to anyone else until a woman in very pointy, very high heels stepped on my foot.
Eh, no big deal. Wine coursed through my veins and I felt no pain. I kept dancing. And dancing. And dancing. Until we all fell asleep in front of the fire.
It was fabulous.
I woke up at 4 in the morning to Kate, in bed beside me, trying to open some windows. “Kate, what are you doing?”
“I’m hot! Aren’t you hot?”
I took this awake opportunity to get some water, and as soon as I stood up, pain shot through my right foot. “Oh my god, my foot.”
“What are you complaining about?” Kate sighed.
“My foot. Something is really wrong.”
“Whatever. Stop whining and go back to sleep.”
So I did. Until I woke up again at 8am. “Okay, something is profoundly wrong with my foot.” Kate ignored me as I got up and walked into the light of the hallway, sitting on a chair and examining my toes.
Holy shit.
I don’t want to gross my dear readers out, but there are substantial chunks of toe missing from my foot. Toes # 3 and 4 on the right have sustained seriously damage and my body is suddenly no longer medicated by Zinfandel.
I wrapped them delicately in toilet paper and went back to bed. Kate leaned over. “Are you okay?”
“I guess. I’ll never walk again, but I may live.”
“Uh, shut up.”
“Kate, you’ve got to see this.”
“I’ll look at it later.” She rolled over and went back to sleep.
An hour later, I woke up and headed upstairs, joining the boys for coffee. Mikey looked down at my feet. “There’s something black on your foot.”
“Yeah, that’s my toe.”
I popped some pain killers, both for my pounding headache and throbbing foot and got dressed. After a fabulous breakfast, we hugged the wonderful Rich goodbye, stopped at a roadside stand to buy some ribs and made it home. As we neared my car in Mill Valley, I made some casual, non-complaining reference to my foot.
“Oh Christ.” Kate yelled from the front seat. “Let me see this goddamn foot.”
From the backseat, I carefully lifted my leg into the front and plopped it on Kate’s lap. “Look at the bottom of my toes, you guys.”
Kate, my companion since birth, has no aversion to my foot in her face and promptly picked it up. “Where?”
“There!”
“OH MY GOD!”
Mikey couldn’t take it anymore. “Lemme see!”
My leg was tossed from the front seat to the back. Normally disgusted by feet, Mikey grabbed it with interest. “Holy shit! That’s really bad, Bethy.”
“Yeah, Beth.” Kate looked concerned. “That’s some really fucked up toes. I mean, you’ll probably live, but ouch, dude.”
I limped into work this morning, my right foot in a hideous, masculine flip flop. “Hey Beth, how was your trip to the River?”
“Fabulous. But I fucked up my foot.”
“Oh no. Let me see. HOLY SHIT! How did you do that?”
“Well, actually. I was dancing.”
Long silence.
“Figures…”

4 comments:

honorary roomie said...

i demand pictures. medical chart-style pictures.

Sunset Boy said...

That's bad. But not as bad as Colt Cabana: http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=2617208&blogID=186630852&MyToken=6f1699a5-3573-4d7a-87ef-ece79abbcb85

BEN

Spots said...

Z, I can't take pictures of my toes because I just put a glob of Pain Relief Neosporin on them and wrapped them up with medicated bandaids in a sad attempt to avoid a physician. And Ben, at this point, I'm ready to have them chopped off provided it involves a general anesthetic...

Sunset Boy said...

Don't do it! Colt Cabana story turnmed out to be a hoax! Everything was true BUT the amputation. But the truth remains that you would love his ring entrance.
BEN