I'm wondering what happens if you b'witch slap a granny at the local diner. I realize that you may be surprised to hear that adorable, gentile, innocent, law abiding Earnestine May was tempted to take down a sweet little granny, but it happened tonight. I mentioned in my last, all to brief, blogette that I am no longer allowed to wear flip flops. Some explanation is needed before we get back to GRANNY.
About a year ago, during a girl's weekend getaway we were all getting pedicures when my pedicurist (is that really a word) commented in a jovial way "oh baby you have those fat little ankles." I've never been much of a fan of having any part of my body called fat, but I knew my ankles were a tad swollen. So I took the comment in stride. I've taken a couple of tumbles over the years. Okay lots of tumbles - NOT due to drinking, but a new PDA was involved in one of them. So I've gotten used to a bit of swelling here and there. When pedi-lady made the comment, one of my friends rushed in to my defense. "Oh Earnie May, I don't think you have fat ankles!" In a very sweet and loving tone she made sure I knew she liked my ankles. (Thanks sweetie - you have always been my champion!)
As a result of this, I started paying a bit more attention to my ankles. Uh oh. The toe painter was right. Both of my darling little outer ankles were swollen most of the time. How could I have missed this? I had fallen in love with cute colorful flip-flops and flat sandals. I built an amazing collection of them in every color of the rainbow. I kept my toenails polished in lovely colors and once a year, with my granddaughters, I got teenie weenie little flowers painted on my big toes. Had I been so smitten with my shoes and polish than I missed the golf balls inhabiting my ankles? As I looked back at a few pictures taken - there they were. The gopher from Caddy Shack was probably after me. He would take one look at my ankles and know there must be golf balls inside!
Finally, I went to see a doctor and sure enough I got diagnosed with some big doctor word that meant "poopy ankles." Seems some of my tendons are swollen to twice their size. And what's worse than poopy ankles? Being told that you have to wear an athletic shoe ALL the time. Are you kidding me? What about my darling flip flops and flat sandals?! Oh nooooo - they are not in my best interest. Along with the darn poopy ankles it seems my arches have fallen and flip flops are a huge no no!
So now me and my ankles are going to physical therapy. Additonally, the doctor is doing a torture treatment involving lots of needles (don't ask - it's just not worth going into.) Technically I am banned from my sandal collection for all of eternity (my own personal version of hell.) Female relatives with whom I share a shoe size are circling me like buzzards!
So enter Granny Joy (of all the possible names on the planet - the fates named her JOY just to irriate me.) Earnest and I were eating at a local diner. And I do mean local. The place is called Joe's and it's billed as the place "where Irving meets and eats." Tonight Granny Joy was having her birthday party at Joe's. I don't even know Granny Joy, but I was sitting in a booth across from her when she got up to go potty and guess what? She was wearning one of MY favorite pairs of sandals. They are black leather with a toe strap and sterling silver embellishments (they look positively ravishing with some of my black Chicos clothing and stylish sterling silver jewelry. I used to get so many compliments when I wore them. And not only did Granny Joy have on the sandals, she had the most lovely pedicure and cute little red toenails. I began salivating like one of Pavlov's dogs. I've been so depressed about my ankles that I haven't seen the inside of a my favorite pedicure shop since July. My toenails, well let's just say, when you wear cruddy shoes, you stop caring caring about your toenails and they stop looking darling.
So now this grey panther has showed up at one of my favorite diners in MY sandals. I didn't know her name till after dinner. All of sudden, singing breaks out. Strains of happy birthday, dear "Granny Joy" fill the restaurant. Her grey panther buddies are all pointing at her. Earnest knows I'm about to come unglued. He gives me that "now - now" look. I pursed my lips and said in a soft but firm tone "what happens if I b'witch slap her?" I couldn't believe what I was saying. I was getting ready to take out someone old enough to be my mother. I'm thinking "bring it on old lady. I'm taking you down." Somehow I manged to maintain a sense of decorum. The party broke up and Granny Joy left. She walked right by me wearning MY sandals and she didn't have a swollen ankle in sight.
Yes - I'm going to rehab. Hopefully, grey haired ladies won't cause me to foam at the mouth again. They will be sending me to Cesar Millan's Dog Psychology Center in South LA. I'll have to get my shots before I go. I must have gotten rabies from the darn gopher...