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The Rest of the Toes Story... Or How I Learned They Needed to Go

You know by now that I have no big-toe nails. Removed they were, by the venerable Dr. Brett Roeder, Team Limoncello official podiatrist and husband of my good friend Yvette. As I said to him after he deposited said toenails into a urine specimen jar, "I like your wife better than you."

Well, now you get to read the rest of the story... or How I came to learn that my toenails should be removed.

If you are at all squeamish about your toenails or fingernails, then you should probably stop reading HERE. If you are considering writing a letter to your Congressman or Senator in support of John McCain's anti-torture bill and you need amunition: MAKE SURE YOU ATE AN HOUR AGO AND PROCEED.

Long separated from their growth plates, my poor toenails hunkered in their former bed like a teenager on a cold Monday morning. They loved my toes - their former address - though bubbling blood and malicious stubbing had uprooted them five days prior, and even still, they really didn't want to leave.

Poor toenails. Poor, poor toenails.

Shod in Birkenstocks and debating whether I should take three shots of tequila and ask my husband to wield his Dremel tool to relieve the puffing pressure, I went to my gynecologist for an unrelated check up. My feet in the stirrups, a modesty drape tented between my knees, I heard my good doctor take her seat and unsheath the metallic clatter of her medieval tool kit.

"Oh, that looks infected!"

Not words you want to hear when all you can see is the puff of her hair rising above the tent of "modesty drape" strung between your knees.

I shoved my heels into the stirrups and tried to sit upright with spoons clattering out of... well, anyway... you can read the results of that exam in another blog entry.

"What do you mean, infected!"

"Oh, no - not... Your toes - your toes. You should get them looked at. There might be some infection. Do they hurt?"

"Well only if you stomp on them... or I try to wear real shoes. I was thinking about drilling them with a Dremel tool to relieve the pressure."

"Obviously, that's not my area of expertise, but I think you should have your primary care physician look at them."

Enter Dr. Roeder. My friend Yvette told me, "If you need a good podiatrist, I sleep with one."

Either because Yvette is a great friend - or Dr. Roeder hadn't yet read the text of Senator McCain's anti-torture bill - the doctor would be able to see me that afternoon.

He took one sidelong glance and said, "Those are coming off."
"Well, yeah, I kinda figured they'd come off, but I thought maybe you could drill a hole in them and relieve the pressure."

"No, they're coming off today."


Tears are rolling down my face -- not out of sympathy as they should be -- but because of the last 3 minutes of deep, gutteral laughter after reading Ms. Bertinelli's "How I learned they needed to go." It's a rare writer who can ruin my makeup this effectively. McCain has probably never before had such a poignant mention. Divine!

I missed this blog!
Well, my husband says that whenever you need more toenails taken off, or just toes taken off, he's your man! Glad the toenails are growing back nicely...we'll both get a pedicure as soon as those suckers are back...(and then we'll get an infection from the pedicure instruments, and then we're back to where we started...loads of fun!).

I'll have you know that my uncle lost his toes to frostbite and could never again dance the Tango with the Circus Lady, and so consider yourself LUCKY, Young Lady, that yours is only a tale of excruciating pain and not one of Lost Love. You make me feel so ... so ... pfft ... HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!