Enough is freakin' enough

That's IT.
I've had it.
I am definitely going to the doctor tomorrow.

My foot feels like it's been overinflated with a bicycle pump. It is uncomfortable. It hurts. It is ugly and deformed. It is unsightly and hideous and have I mentioned that IT HURTS?

I don't care that I have to take all three children to the Indian Clinic with me tomorrow to sit in Triage for God knows how long, I simply must see a doctor. Okay, rephrasing: I actually DO care that I have to take them, but I have no choice. So there. This has gone on for a week and a half now and I've put it off and put it off thinking that I'd wake up in the morning and it'd be better. So far that hasn't happened, obviously. To paraphrase an old Garth Brooks song, tomorrow never came.

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Ya know, I told y'all the nasty skeletal rat story yesterday. Well, we keep a mouse trap set all the time in our pantry because for some reason the little suckers go to it. Even though the stench of death has got to have permeated the floor of the pantry by now, as many as we've caught. But they are not smart rodents, I have decided. They have set my utility room up as Mouse Central. It's their little germy command station full of TURDS. Last week (before the giant skeletal rat was discovered) we caught an itty bitty field mouse. Pretty typical since they were baling our hay field. We catch one every other month or so and that's life around here. So in my mind, I'm thinking that since we caught one last week that I've got about five, six weeks left before we see another one. Wrong. Oh so wrong.

I had done laundry all morning because when I got out of the shower this morning I discovered that I had no clean shorts. I had clean underwear, but nothing to put on over the clean underwear. So I just put on clean pj's. I was comfy, needless to say. I could live in my pj pants. No kidding. But I refuse to be one of those women who wear their pj's to Wal*Mart . . . Anyway, I had been in and out of that laundry room several times, washin', dryin', foldin', hangin' up . . . just goin' about my merry little homemaker ways. Oblivious that my life was in perilously grave danger the entire time. At noon I was in the kitchen cutting up pears for the kids when I saw a frickin' mouse dart from under my refrigerator to the utility room. Paul hasn't taken out the trash in a few days so there were probably 4 bags piled up by the trashcan out there. Little sucker ran into the shelter of the mountain of Hefty bags and was gone. But I still felt compelled to scream, holler, curse and then abandon all lunch efforts entirely. It was only because Sam was feigning a near unconscious state (and a rather good one, too) and the fact that I had only had a Special K bar for breakfast and I was starving that I braved the kitchen once more to finish lunch. I put on flip flops because being raised from the floor that extra inch will save you from the heinous atrocities of a vicious mouse attack. And I proceded to sing Henry the Eighth (Like Patrick Swayze did in Ghost. Remember?) and stomp rather loudly. The kids thought that was hilarious and joined in. If the preacherman had dropped in and heard that racket, he'd have prayed extra hard for us.

If we don't catch the mouse in the trap, we'll probably find him dead near the trash can, colder'n a wedge from a heart attack 'cuz I'd be terrified if gigantic people started stomping and singing like that right near my command post.

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Today was payday. Life can resume once more. Because of the mouse threat in my kitchen, dinner was cancelled tonight. At least a homecooked one. So Paul, even though he didn't want to, took us to town to eat. I was really really hungry, my foot hurt, I was tired and very very cranky, so I pouted all the way to town because he's been nasty hateful lately. We ate at Wendy's and it took them like 47 hours to cook the girls' chicken nuggets. And the rest of us waited on them out of politeness, even though Paul and Sam were picking at the bread on their burgers while we waited. Then when I finally got to open the durn wrapper on my grilled chicken sandwich, I discovered that - even though I had asked the NOT TO - they had slathered that nasty chipotle sauce on my precious 7 point sandwich. I was too hungry to send it back. I scraped off as much as I could with Ab's chicken nugget box, then burned my tongue with my scorching hot baked potato and didn't taste a thing the rest of the meal.

When dinner was over and we were walking to the truck, Abby patted me on the back and said, "Boy, Mom, you sure do get cranky when it's time to eat now, don't you?" Paul thought that was amusing. Then she asked why I am counting points and what did it mean. I told her that I am too fat and I need to lose weight to get healthy and then I can live long enough to make her adult life miserable. She said I was doing a pretty good job of messing up her childhood already. Sam was listening thoughtfully through the conversation and when the right lull occured he said, "Man, I wish I was fat like you, Mom! You're comfy and. . . and. . . and squishy!!"

I love my kids.

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Well, Paul just took out Hefty Mountain to be burned. He knew I was blogging and I bet he was worried I'd tell y'all. Ha. Too late, mister. Take the trash out quicker next time and you won't get blogged, buddy.

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We rented some movies tonight, namely Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. It looks a little more intense than the first two, so I told the kids I'd screen it first before I'd let them watch it. So I think I'll put my pj's (back) on and head back to watch it in the bedroom.

We also rented I *heart* Huckabees, Assault on Precinct 13, Along Came Polly and for the kids, Two Brothers. Anyone up for a movie marathon this weekend? No popcorn, but we do have Special K bars, pickles and lots of salsa.