Too Weird


2ND UPDATE 24 MARCH 2016
Because WordPress doesn’t allow for me to bring this post into today’s date I’m writing a whole new post – you can join it here: New post March 2016

Maybe there’s hope yet!

Original post and comments below the line…


Wow that title sounds like an old west saga – is it just me or can you see Fess Parker standing over a day-old campfire in his raccoon hat talking to Little Sou as they track the sudden disappearance of Chief Big Feather who was last seen at the top of Itchy Heels Rock and… oh wait. How many of you even know the name Fess Parker? Heh. Yeah that’s what I thought. Ok on to the real post 🙂

Last week spouse dragged me kicking and screaming to an evening of fireworks at our local mall. The fireworks were scheduled on the river to mark the opening of our shire’s annual week-long fair. Normally I would have been a happy camper to go along but it had rained all night the night before and all day and it was cold. I could not wrap my head around going to an outdoor event in the cold and rain (and mud – bleh) to watch fireworks that may or may not have been visible in the cloud cover and fog. But he really wanted to go so I pulled my socks up and tagged along.

Literally just as we crossed the bridge the rain subsided and by the time we parked the car the clouds and fog were receding. Receding? Evaporating? Well I’m sure there’s a proper word for clouds and fog going wherever it is they go when we suddenly can”t see them but it eludes me at the moment. We walked around the mall for a bit then made our way to the outdoor area designated for the ‘watchers’.

When the fireworks began I tried to plan my camera ‘clicks’ but gave up and just held it on the railing and clicked as fast as I could. Out of 244 ‘clicks’ I ended up with about a dozen decent shots and a half dozen absolutely magnificent shots. The one shown here reminded me of a champagne bottle exploding. I scaled it down to fit this post and will clean it up when I’m ready to enlarge it. But not bad for a dismal day and a now antique digital camera!

One of the reasons I was especially grumbly about this trip across the river was that towards the beginning of last week I had a strange and unpleasant experience that just gradually kept getting worse. Itchy heels. When I was first diagnosed with diabetes, I was warned that one day I would experience some tingling in my toes and fingers, that as time went on the long term effects of having too much sugar in my blood would show up as poor circulation, kidney problems, liver troubles, weight gain, failing eyesight and oh brother the list goes on.

So far I’ve been extremely lucky. I have regular check-ups and tests and while my diabetic ‘marker’ is sometimes too high for my doctor’s liking, I have managed to maintain healthy kidneys and liver, good eyesight and so far (knock wood) no numbness of limbs. So when I woke up at 2 am with this mild itching on both of my heels I thought – wow this must be how it starts. It persisted all the next day, though still mild and not too hard to ignore. The second night was worse. It was as if I’d stepped into a pile of itching powder that only affected the heels and I rubbed them against a roughly textured throw rug to make it stop long enough to find something soothing. I had a cream for tinnea (athlete’s foot) and generously applied it to both heels. I slept poorly for a few hours then it started up again making sleep virtually impossible.

I have an appointment with my diabetes doctor set for the first week in June, (the earliest I can get in to see him) and decided to tough it out until then. By Thursday, though, the itching was persisting during the day as well and I really wasn’t keen on putting hot shoes and socks on and itching in public from the warmth. It seems to be the warmth of the blankets and socks that exacerbate the itching. Since Friday afternoon I’ve not been able to sleep for more than just a couple of hours at a time so now I’m dealing with a bit of sleep deprivation on top – not a happy combination eh?

About 4 am this morning, as I sat poised on the edge of my chair at my desk, trying to get relief from the side of an old, worn out Easter basket, fantasizing about what we might have downstairs  in the workshop – you know – like maybe a nice rough woodfile or medium grade sandpaper – it occured to me that I was sitting in front of this generation’s best research tool ever: Google.

I typed itchy heels into the Google command bar and hit enter.  Oh my word. A menu popped up with suggestions: – at night – causes – of feet – I picked plain old itchy heels and hit enter.

1,470,000 hits. You’ve got to be kidding me right? Almost 1.5 million responses! What did we ever do before Google???

So I started down the list, looking for answers or causes or relief – and then I stumbled onto this website and was completely taken aback. An odd site called heelspur.com had placed in a separate file on a separate site this compilation of hundreds of people, all asking  the same question:  My heels itch so bad I can’t sleep is there any way to stop the itching?

From 2003 through 2009, literally hundreds of people with the same complaint had come together almost like a community. First there’s the question, then the realization that other people are out there with the exact same problem, then the realization that nobody knows – anything about this – this what – what do we even call it?

Here’s the common denominator in this thread: Everyone experiences it sometimes in the day but always, always at night within an hour or two after falling asleep. And nothing provides relief. Not a cream or a salve, not washing with bleach or rubbing tea tree oil – sometimes temporary relief comes with each of these things but it never ever lasts and you end up back at square one in only hours or a few days. No one has a rash or discolouration of any type, no build up of callous skin, no allergies to speak of, not new products or foods to rule out. Just this God awful persistent itch.

Here are the differences: The people on this site have been to dermatologists, sports doctors, neurologists, dieticians – some have undergone the expense of MRI’s, others have paid thousands of dollars going to all different specialists and having blood tests, allergy tests, allergy shots, the works. Others have tried homeopathic, chiropractic and accupuncture. Some completely change lifestyles. One gentleman was sure it was something he’d picked up at a gym and he stopped going for his workouts. One man thought it was from wearing shoes and socks everyday and another thought it was from going barefoot. One woman had her feet scraped often thinking it was a bacteria that got under the calloused parts of her feet. Another woman had it only on the balls of her feet and not the heels at all but the itching was identical to what everyone was describing. A few people said it happened to only one heel and not the other.

One man says he keeps a grass welcome mat under his side of the bed so when it wakes him at night he can just dig in his heels and rub and rub until the itching stops, hopefully long enough to get back to sleep.

And these are all different people with different lifestyles. Athletes, non-athletes, fat people, skinny people, vegetarians, hot dog fans, diabetics, non-diabetics, men and women alike aged between 20 and 70, in different cultures in different countries all experiencing the exact same dilemma.

I can’t adequately describe the sensation. The itching is maddening. It is all encompassing. You think about nothing else but ways you might try to stop the itching. It is a completely insane physical complaint.

In reading all the ways people have tried to deal with this ridiculously sounding crisis, one man said he tried some Ibuprofen and it seemed to give him some relief. Well I have Ibuprofen in my medicine cabinet and it sounded a lot saner than the poor woman who deliberately went to a public swimming pool once a month to scrub her feet hard against the coarse surface of the chlorine-covered pool floor – so I got a glass of water and took one tablet. Still itchy. About 30 minutes later I took a second. Thirty minutes after that I took a third and within ten minutes the itching was subsiding. By 6 am I was crawling back into bed hoping for at least two hours sleep before it started up again…

Spouse woke me up around 1:30pm. I opened my eyes and waited for the itch. It wasn’t there. All day long I have waited for the itch amd all day long it’s been gone. I don’t know for how long, but I will take one tablet at bedtime from now until my doctor appointment in June. I don’t hold any hope for being told what this mysterious itchy heel thing is, but I will mention it to him anyway and show him the website. Six years of online questions with no medical authority ever once stepping in to give an answer or solution. Too weird.

This is the link to the comments.  It’s worth a few minutes scanning to see the amount of total frustration shared by all these people and how some of them came togetgher to try and solve a problem nobody else seemed able to solve. The commenters slowly evolve into an entire community who in turn welcome newcomers who came online to get answers, only to find there were only more people with the same question. Frustrating, of course, but there’s also a great deal of relief in the simple discovery –  you’re not alone.

For all the things the internet does wrong, once in a while it does something really, really right. Kudos to the developers of search engines and the programmers who have made it possible for total strangers around the globe to click a button, browse a menu and immediately jump into a conversation that could improve their quality of life.

Here are a few of the better fireworks photos from last week. Click each to enlarge – feel free to share 🙂

     

============ UPDATE ============
07 April 2012

Every couple of months I notice that this post attracts a new comment from someone who (like the rest of us Googled in quiet desperation looking for a cure.So because there are still people searching for answers to this ridiculously irritating yet medically-unpublished condition I thought I’d take a moment (while my arm is healing from having been broken in January and I’m retraining myself to type with two hands and use the mouse without screaming) to bring you all up on my personal progress/experience. I’m also adding it to my current folder so it doesn’t get dropped from a search engine.

I’m not sure any of the techniques/herbs/medications accomplished anything to be honest. Almost everything I tried gave an illusion of granting relief temporarily but none for any substantial amount of time. I purchased a roughly-textured doormat and kept it by my bed but while I got relief, the skin on the bottoms of my feet began to suffer.

Eventually I purchased a thickly-shagged bath mat with a rubber no-slip bottom and that did the trick.
There was just enough scruffy texture to satisfy the itch but not enough to break the skin. It was enough to let me sleep – which is what I needed to recover the most. Without sleep the rest of your mind and body fall apart and then nothing goes well.

A week after writing this post I met with my GP who happens to also hold credentials in dermatology. He was flummoxed. He made phone calls to other specialists on my behalf – and no one knew what I was on about. My doctor did advise, however, to never take more than 1200mg of Ibuprofen per day, (6 x 200  mg tablets) and then only for short periods of time, never prolonged periods. The itching returned just days after I’d begun taking it so I gave it up easily.

Then, sometime in late June, probably just around a month after originally writing this post, the itching came to a full stop and never – never once – returned.

No explanation. No cure. The mysterious itching that had taken over my life simply stopped and never came back.

My advice to anyone seeking an answer is this:  When it itches,  scratch it. Not so hard the skin breaks, but just until there’s this sort of almost burning sensation. Like you’ve generated heat, just like the heat you get from rubbing two sticks together when attempting to build a campfire. That ‘just-before-it-becomes-unbearable’ b it of heat seems to be the signal that all the itching is going to stop for a bit. Take advantage of that. Get some sleep. With any luck it will eventually just stop for you too.

Oh and complain to your doctor. The more doct0rs who9 hear about this from their patients, the better chance we all have for someone in the medical profession to sit up and take notice – and find some decent remedies!

My thanks to all the commenters – along with my sincerest sympathies. This is not a club any of us wanted to join, eh?

 

I’m in awe of the energy and enthusiasm generated in the comments on yesterday’s post – and I want to thank absolutely all of you for your strong responses. I highly recommend all comments be read and I’ve plucked bits from comment #20 to post here because the writer is from Alaska, familiar with Wasilla and it’s citizenry – and has added a flavour that’s been lacking in other descriptions of Sarah – a physical description of Sarah as mayor.

You can read the entire post in yesterday’s comments (just below this post) along with all the other insights and perspectives provided by the other commenters .

The following  are the highlights of denaliorbust’s post which stood out for me. Three red dots indicate where I’ve snipped:

denaliorbust Says:
December 11, 2009 at 10:17 am e

Those of us who live in Alaska and who know Sarah and those who know Kristan have been boggled how the relating of their “best friendship” has been sold to the country.

Neither of them has any real close friends.

What so many people don’t get is that Sarah went for nine years as the prima donna of Wasilla. She rarely went anywhere without looking like a million dollars. It was funny because most women who live in Wasilla – and about 99% of all guys – simply wear jeans, Carharts, parkas, and hiking or hunting boots. There is no dress code out there. That was the primary way Sarah stood out is that she always looked dressed to the nines – with her hair up, her pedicures and her flawless make-up.

This allowed her to live in her little “special Sarah bubble” for almost a decade before running for governor. Think about this for a moment – you live in a small town. You are the mayor – big whoop – it took less than 1,000 votes to win you the post – but to you and your family it is a huge deal and you make it a huge deal. You fancy yourself a major political force, and almost everyone around you feeds into this perception you have of yourself. Constant fawning. When you are at your church people keep “having words for you” that include you will one day end up in the White House – because they are as in awe of you being the mayor as you are in awe of you being the mayor.

Sarah is acting no differently today while she shakes hands with whichever poor blokes sat out all night in sub-zero weather in whichever duped American town she’s currently visiting then she’s acted since 1996 when little strip town Wasilla elected her mayor.

And really, she’s acted like this in some part since her glory days of trotting herself across a stage in a bathing suit and trying to eke out a tune on a flute without going cross-eyed.

SHE LOVES THE ATTENTION. But unlike let’s say a comedian who is used to the stage and loves the attention too; Sarah believes she deserves the attention.

That’s the main difference. She believes she deserves it. And her family – which are really her only close friends – believe it too. They are incensed with any questioning – let alone negative coverage – of her. It’s so bizarre and surreal. It’s like they somehow don’t get that this is a nation we’re talking about. It’s a republic. There is something called the first amendment and it’s to be expected when people ask questions of Sarah’s policies or processes. People aren’t being inherently mean when they question Sarah; they’re being responsible citizens.

But her family doesn’t get this and because it’s only her family she surrounds herself with – and a couple other “fawning over their position and paycheck” aides – there is no one to help her process that “it’s okay. Calm down. People have a right -hello – to ask questions of you. You can’t expect that they won’t”

But virtually no one in Wasilla did for all those years. Why can’t everyone in America get how special, how unique, how beyond-the-common she is, like the good folks in Wasilla got it? What’s wrong with this dang nation full of people who keep asking questions about her and her motives and her tales? People hate her, that’s it! People are jealous of her! That’s it! She has become the world’s most well know serial martyr. Everyone – except Rupert and Rush are out to get her!

This very act of questioning is what annoys – well, it’s more than annoyance – it’s what infuriates her family members and her too. They have this attitude like it’s her right – she has ascended to a position that is her right and how dare anyone question how she got here, if she’s fit, what’s she’s doing, why she’s doing it.

You see, Sarah lived virtually the whole of her life not being questioned. She was never treated like a mayor – she was always treated much more like a queen who would, out of the majesty of her own heart, deign to speak with her subjects – and they should be so grateful for her attention.

Those of us who lived in other parts of the State used to laugh over this farcical little charade because it was so hilarious. But see, it takes not just Sarah living in a delusional zone, it takes others who will join her in her delusion – who will feed it in her, if you will. That’s why it would be funny if I couldn’t get past how sad it is to see the hundreds of hungry-for-meaning-in-their-lives people who sit for hours in lawn chairs in sleet and snow so they can shake the hand of someone they desperately long to believe it.

When the truth comes out – watch out. There are going to be truckloads of folks needing a therapist’s couch to sort out their shock, anger, grief and sense of betrayal.

There were always plenty of (people) who were just so in awe of the lovely Mayor Palin. They willingly fed her delusional state that she was somebody to behold and treat with reverence and a special kind of awe.

She wasn’t like them. They wore boots and she wore darling little sandals with flowers painted on her perfect toes. Their teeth were rotten or missing, or at the very least slightly off – hers were perfect and straight and white as the wind driven snow. They were size 12 or 14 or 20 or — she was a tiny, delicate little size 6. Their hair was unkept. Her’s was glossy and kept in place with gallons of hair spray. They’d never worn any make-up. She wore it by the layers.

You get the idea. She had nothing in common with them because she wasn’t common. She was the mayor. She had been Miss Wasilla. She had been the star basketball player. She was going to “end up in the White House” – how did she know this? Because they would say so when they would speak to her, that’s how she knew.

The rest of us throughout Alaska who were paying attention – those who saw immediately through the ruse – kept at bay and chuckled amongst ourselves at the delusion of Sarah and her faithful few – unfortunately the few turned out to be enough to land her in the gov’s seat – thanks to the two qualified candidates in the primary vying for the same voters, and one of them being the least liked governor in the nation.

This is the problem – and it’s why it’s right that Andrew Sullivan doesn’t move beyond the Palin issue – because it takes people a while to wake up.

Thank you denaliorbust – I wish more Alaskans would share their memories of and personal experiences with Sister Mayor Sarah with the rest of the nation – people have a right to know what lies beneath the public image of whoever they are backing – OzMud

This is literally off the top of my head. In the middle of performing some incredibly tedious, mind-numbingly unchallenging computer work this afternoon, a thought bounced from one side of my brain to the other and flopped in a corner – much like when one of my kids would leap across the sofa and land in a heap causing the floor to shake in retaliation  – then look at me with that What! What did I do? face that I actually miss now that they’re all grown…

And bear with me as I’ve no intention of proofreading or editting. Well maybe a once-over proofing…

But it struck me as odd today that Sarah Palin, with all her smalltown upbringing, and her outgong personality, doesn’t seem to have (and I know this sounds silly) a best friend.  Think about that for a moment and see if it doesn’t strike your hmm that is weird grey matter. (Oh God – is it grey or gray? I can never remember.)

Where is Sarah’s best friend? You know, the one female she confides in and has been with her through thick and thin and can verify all her life experiences because she was there…

Someone who’s been with her from the beginning. Someone who was ready to step in and hold her hand through her first labour in case Todd couldn’t get to the hospital on time?

That friend who always goes with you to see your kids perform in school pageants and dance recitals. That lady you have on speed dial just so you can call her fast to say Omigod you’ll never believe what just happened!

It has occurred to me, sifting through past news articles and book excerpts, that there’s this inescapable missing thing in her stories and photos, speeches and interviews – a thing as simple and common and everydayish as – a friend.

And I don’t mean the people she pays to babysit her kids or wipe her email accounts for her. I don’t mean her loyal or devoted fans or employees. I mean someone who’s honestly been there with her and for her. Someone she talks to all the time. Takes to a movie or a trip to the gym. Someone to go shopping with and swap bags so their husbands won’t know what they bought. (What?You never took bags home telling your husband they were Suzie’s and you brought them home with you because she didn’t want Hal to see how much she’d spent?)

Where are the cute, funny stories of Sarah and her best friend _______?

And why hasn’t this friend come forward to back up her Sarah’s version of Trig’s birth and her house being built by Todd and Bristol leaving school to be home-tutored?

And if she – in fact – lived in the same town for thirty-plus years without ever making a best friend… well that’s just disturbing. On a lot of levels.

I hear the clickety-clack of the grammar police coming down the road. I don’t care.

Hits [post] button.

So – it’s two days later and everything just feels so relaxed. Whatever damage the Palin family can continue to inflict on the rest of America has, at least for the moment, slowed to a snail’s crawl. It feels good to be back at my desk in my jammies instead of having to don armour before going out on the web. For the first time in a very, very long time, I don’t know what the Palins are up to and… I don’t especially care 🙂

 So this morning, basking in my newfound comfy mode, I’m leisurely browsing through my favourite Alaska blogs. Gryphen finds the best video treasures: William Shatner made me laugh. Carl Bernstein made me giggle out loud. Jon stewart makes me pee my chair. (The Immoral Minority link is over there –>)

Celtic Diva’s inspired people to write letters to the wimp editors at the ADN, letting them know how disappointed they (we all) are in the papers biased and erroneous coverage of the Palin Administration. (Blue Oasis link is over there –>)

Phillip Munger has put the final chapter on his coverage of Palin, a series he called Saradise Lost. It was one of the first writings I found a year ago when trying as an outsider to figure out what Sarah Palin was all about, and I became a faithful follower. (Progressive Alaska link is over there –>)

Finally, AKMuckraker & her mudpuppies have taken well, just the best photos of all the quitter-governor’s quitter-picnics. In fact, I realized, looking at a photo of Sean Parnell (newly-dubbed Governor of Alaska) that in this entire year of Palin’s Reign of Error, this was the first photo I’d seen of the man. Nice looking. Seems genuinely happy to be serving hot dogs to the public. (The Mudflats link is over there –>)

But there’s something familiar about Parnell’s face. I couldn’t put my finger on it at first – then I remembered Shannyn Moore had referred to him as Captain Zero (Shannyn Moore’s link is over there –>) and it hit me! I spit coffee on my monitor. I’VE SEEN THAT SMILE BEFORE!

So quite discretely and without permission I pinched the photo from The Mudflats, dug through some very old archives, fiddled with photoshop and voilla! Are these two related?? You decide 🙂

CaptainParnell

I’m sure the resemblance is pure coincidence – but – someone in Alaska really should present him with a gi-normous fishing hook, an old-fashioned alarm clock and a purply-plumed hat 🙂

To comment on this post, scroll back to the title:  26 July 2009 – The End of an Error and click the word comments just beneath. Thanks – OzMud

sarahmoose

Just in time for Christmas!  This unique handmade ornament –  a portrait, really – can be yours by going to this site and placing your order with FullFrogMoon! And each one is individually signed by the artist! 

They’re only $13.50 USD so get lots!

Just imagine – put these on your tree and pump up the volume on the Nutcracker Ballet and soon you too will have visions of Moose/Palins dancing through your head!

(Is it just me or is this just too weird?)

So I’ve just called my spouse to my desk to show him what Willie (my Widget) looks like at night:

widget-night-moon

The cutest bit is that when you mouseover the big moon on the left, the pop-up tag says SUNNY!

“Look how cute!”  I beamed with pride. “That doesn’t look anything like the moon outside. Where’s the smiley face?” he jeered. Earlier tonight, we watched the lunar alignment of the moon with Venus and Jupiter where the three formed to make a smiley face.

“You expected this little energex widget to look EXACTLY like the curent night sky?” I asked a tad sarcastically.

“What if i was a fisherman? What if I was depending upon that widget to tell me when and where to cast my nets tomorrow?” I stared, unable to speak. Spouse continued.

“What if I was lost at sea and needed to find the north star? What would your widget say then eh? What if I was a religious zealot and needed to know which phase of the moon we were in so I could plan the appropriate sacrifice? Does it show you where to get the closest, cheapest beer? Well? Does it? I thought not. It’s useless.”

As I watched him leave the room all I could think was… “Poor man – he’s been living with me way too long.”

I’ve gone right to sleep but it’s so warm and humid this week the bedding has that slightly damp feeling when you slip into the covers. My hair is tacked in a bun on the very top of my head so it doesn’t stick to my neck and choke me when I turn. The A/C has been on all evening, but still it’s quite muggy. Might as well be having hot flashes. At least they don’t last all night.

Funny things trigger dreams. Or maybe nothing at all. Coincidence? I dunno. But I’m thinking it’s the muggy dampness of my bed combined with the horrible movie I fell asleep watching that triggered the dream I had last night:

My spouse and I are at this party. Some unidentifiable friends house. There’s a big lounge, lots of people milling about to our right. We are standing in a foyer by the front door. On the other side is another lounge with more people milling about.

Suddenly the front door (which was already standing open) burst open and two men rush past us and begin slashing people to the right and left of us. Spouse whips out his cell and dials triple-0. I can hear him arguing with someone on the other end. I ask if an ambulance is on it’s way. He says he doesn’t think so, and I realize he is on talk-radio. The DJ’s voice can be heard behind me as if coming from a radio in another room. He’s asking spouse the question “so tell us what happened in your own words.”

Desperate times call for desperate measures, I think and whip out my cell (which is odd because I don’t own one…) and dial 9-1-1. A voice comes on and tells me I need to know the exact number before I can dial. I tell the operator I need ambulances, that there’s men (who now seem to be gone – where did they go?) slashing people with knives and we need help! HELP!

The operator calmly tells me, again, that I need to know the correct number before I can place a call. (sigh) “Fine” I say through gritted teeth, “then give me the correct number.” Silence. Then finally, “well I can’t do that. I’m not that sort of operator.” I hear spouse shouting ‘OK SEND FIVE AMBULANCES WE’LL WAIT HERE!” and I hang up. (Wait – do you ‘hang up’ a cell or ‘click-off”?).

Now spouse and I and about three or four other people (none of whom appear capable of speech) are sitting at a kitchen table, still in the foyer, staring at a table covered with dirty dishes. Did we just eat? All around us people are bleeding and groaning. The clock is ticking away and we’re waiting for the ambulances. We’re very uncomfortable.

Finally an ambulance arrives. Two Blue Nurses (Blue Care Australia is a service that cares for people in their homes) emerge from the back of the ambulance, which also appears to double as a limo. Both women appear to be in their 80’s. One is so frail that as she gets to the front door she tips over like a Weeble and falls flat on her face. The other one waddles over (she’s actually waddling, just like a goose) and straightens the other nurse. The two start talking about washing their hands before getting started. They ask for a sink and spouse points to the kitchen. The two are ever-so-slowly waddling off, discussing which handsoap they each prefer and I just lose it.

Though screaming at the top of my lungs so hard my throat hurts, I can’t hear any sound. So I scream harder. ‘WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE! CAN’T YOU SEE THE…” I can actually feel myself pushing through the haze of sleep and the words “BLOOD AND GUTS… DO SOMETHING!” come streaming from my lips like an ice cold water balloon jettisoned from a three-story building and carefully aimed at spouse’s head causing him to jump out of a sound sleep and off the bed. I know I’m out of the fog now because I distinctly hear cussing.

‘CRAP!” is what I heard. Then, I guess realizing I was having a nightmare, spouse held me until I was fully back to sleep.

But that’s not really the weird bit. I have incredibly bizarre dreams a few times a year. This is the weird bit. This is our complete, uneditted conversation, the first words spoken to each other since the middle of the night screaming-mimis. It was during morning coffee:

Him “So – remember yesterday afternoon when I took a piece of glass out of your foot?”
Me “Yup.”
Him “Remember how that old fable goes about the rabbit and the lion and the thorn?”
Me “uh-huh”
Him “You owe me.”

Me “Huh?”

Several minutes later he added “Oh and about your nightmare; The thing that really scared me was knowing I’d eaten your homemade pizza too!”