Do gypsies get this stressed out before breaking camp?

Probably not.

Granted, they probably don’t have a pushy dog and a needy cat and a giant house that requires cleaning every five minutes; or a back deck and yard full of vegetables that need endless amounts of tending and water and…{{{gasping for breath.}}}  Likely they weren’t compelled to try to tote along mini-sized quantities of the copious (and pretty much ineffective) hair products intended to eradicate – or at least tame – my curly hair. Gypsies always seem to have straight hair. And they probably aren’t foolish enough to get cable installed and then realize three months later that they’ve watched maybe a collective hours’ worth. Thus, they probably didn’t have to stand in line for an hour at the Time Warner Oceanic office to return the box today.

Not to mention, last time I checked, gypsies made their livings through palm reading and petty crimes…they don’t need to innovate and work seventeen thousand angles just to pay the bills.

Heck, are there even bills when you’re a gypsy? Who knows? Probably just some crystal ball and black eyeliner-related expenses, but I digress…

I fly out this morning for a three-week trip. I have scrunched the entirety of my to-be-carted-along possessions into a small carry-on suitcase and a backpack; of this I am proud. On the other hand, I have a book review (paid) due on Thursday, and I’m still not even through the (self-published, new age, kill me now) book. This is in stark opposition of my plan to send the review in today.

And then there are my big toes.

Back in January, Fu Manchu ran up, wrapped his arms around my foot, and bit through the toenail of my right foot…thus screwing it up (looks-wise) for what might ultimately be an entire year. For real. A huge blood clot thing formed it’s still only half healthy nail six months later. The other half looks like…um…hell.

Um. Yuck.
Sorry about exposing you to this horror.

Sunday night, while relocating some shelves on my back deck, I decided to even things out. I dropped a 15 pound piece of wood on the big toe of my left foot…and it’s now rather spectacularly bruised as well. It has been suggested that I might lose either/both toenails, a prospect both disgusting and probable. The right one has a pretty big section with no toenail (I just kind of pour nail polish in there, despite the voices in my head suggesting this is a really bad idea) and the left one, well, ow. It’s only been a couple of days, but judging by the level of ow, anything is possible.

I hope both nails keep on keeping on. If we have a death in the toe family, I could end up having to involves lawyers to determine which little piggy gets roast beef, which goes to the market, or who goes wee wee wee all the way home in the absence of the protective outer shell of one of their leaders.

Nothing a little dark nail polish can’t fix…er…disguise…um…sort of.

Speaking of protective outer shells…  When I was a kid, my brother had a hermit crab, Hermie. We were 0utrageously clever children: I had a goldfish named Goldie, and I’m pretty sure if we’d had a hamster it would have been Hammy.

So anyway, Hermie lived in an aquarium on top of the toilet and was a pretty ho hum pet by and large. Then, one day, it all changed: Hermie was sighted running around all skinny and skeletal and, well, naked. It was perverse and horrifying and sad.

Hermie had shed his shell and needed a new one…and we were fresh out. We put in a deodorant lid and a Tonka truck and some other objects we hoped he might adopt, but no such luck. Hermie died of exposure on top of a toilet tank in southeast Pennsylvania. Fortunately, he didn’t leave behind much but his discarded shell, and I think we were too bummed out to hang onto it. Had he amassed more in his sorry aquarium-based life than the Tonka truck, deodorant lid, and misappropriated Star Wars figurine that were already technically the property of my brother and I, we might have gotten into an argument trying to split it all up.

Yes, Hermie died tragically, but he didn’t die in vain.

Okay, maybe he did, but I’m reaching here, so let’s assume somehow in the big scheme of things he didn’t die in vain, and then take a page from Peter Pan – or, more specifically, Tinker Bell – and wish the same for my big toes.

If you believe in fairies – or my toenails – clap!

Clap, dammit!

I’ve never lost a toenail, but things are looking (at best) 50/50 on that claim.

If there are other rays of light or causes for optimism, please fill me in. Otherwise? Clap! If you believe in my big toe’s nail…put your two hands together and show me some love.

Until then – and hopefully with both toenails somewhat intact or at least seemingly so – I bid you good day.