The Trials and Tribulations of Poor A

A got a job a couple weeks ago at a nice new Italian restaurant and she likes it. Unfortunately, they are big on wine, and A somehow neglected to tell them that she was a bit unsure (read: she couldn't do it) how to open wine properly. This is, of course, my fault, since I forgot to teach her how to use a wine key properly. I can't imagine that I did this, since my own father taught me at about age 12, and I know M can do it, but A somehow missed the lesson. So it became necessary that A learn to open wine, and quickly too, Mom, I might have to do it tomorrow. I called in J, who has major serving experience, and went to the supermarket to spend my unemployment money on cheap wine. Like that's the first time THAT has ever happened.

I've been using my unemployment time wisely, mostly honing my drinking skills. I've gotten pretty damn good at it, actually, but wine isn't really my thing. We had a bottle at home, Crazy Llama, which I bought last winter at Earthfare using my usual wine buying guide: buy the one with the coolest label. This encourages good packaging and design. At Ingles, the choices are somewhat more limited. I was disappointed to find that the bright blue wine had a screw top (can you imagine?) because I thought some blue wine experience would be very helpful if our careers continue on the paths they have been on lately. But I had to buy the expensive stuff, the $6 a bottle stuff. We opened many bottles of wine, and then, of course, we had to drink it. Wine doesn't keep, and thanks, I don't need more vinegar. Being as I am a gourmet cook and all, I have like 6 bottles of exotic vinegars. Not that I ever use them but hey, they're there - it turns out, by the way, that balsamic doesn't clean windows well. So we called in my friend D, who brought another bottle for practice. I made coq au vin with the basically undrinkable even by us, which is saying something, llama wine, and all in all it was quite a successful evening. A has been opening bottles like a pro ever since.

All is good in A's life, and in mine, because I feel that now it's her turn to support her aged mother, and as soon as the restaurant really gets underway, she will hopefully make enough money to do just that. Except, as is often the case, at some point in the last few months A has managed to piss off the toenail gods. In June or early July, she somehow stubbed her foot at the beach and the toenail turned upside down or something and eventually fell off. A, who is a definite person, and a little stubborn, refuses to wear anything but flip flops. So, one toenail down. It was traumatic at the time, but we have mostly forgotten it, even though looking down at her feet in the omnipresent flip flops can give you a kind of unpleasant swooping feeling in the stomach when you notice that the big toenail is missing. I suggested painting it, but that was vetoed.

Then she managed to do the same thing, only with gusto, to the other big toenail. It was very gross, and, of course, the dogs, especially Theo, insist on licking all wounds on all people and animals in this house. Incessantly. You have to drag them off. Sometimes I worry that they have developed an unholy taste for human blood and might be tempted to kill us in our sleep, but then I realize that they much prefer having someone around with thumbs to open the dogfood cans. So, it was disgusting looking, we had to keep hauling the dogs away, A complained, but it was bearable, until she went out last night (in sandals, duh!) and somebody stepped on it. Somebody wearing steel toed work boots.

She called me from her bed this morning on the phone, demanding coca cola and excedrin and saying that she couldn't walk or take off her shoe. It was really totally unbelievably beyond gross: the toenail was sticking up vertically from her foot. We tried. I am not the medical type. I don't quite faint at the sight of blood but I do turn pale and have to leave the room, or I flap my arms around a lot and make weird crooning noises. I tried being all tough, made her soak it in water and hydrogen peroxide, gave her antibiotic ointment and a gauze pad and duct tape to wrap it up in, yet still she felt this wasn't enough. She objected to the duct tape and said it hurt too much to cut it off or even get her shoe off and oh god, what am I going to do? I suggested that I was going to the laundromat and that she, the one with the close personal relationship with the toe, could deal with it while I was gone. We dithered around like this for several hours. Remember that A's day starts at noon, always. Finally, I decided to be strong, and I boiled the pruning shears.

I took the sterilized pruning shears in to her room to cut off all the toenail but it was no go. I had to flap my arms around and hoot, and A said, "Mom, what the hell do you think you're doing?" "Invoking a healing dance, sweetheart." I said. "It's big in the Congo." "Okay." she said, "I am not dealing with this right now. You're crazy." So I took her to the Sisters of Mercy. They were glad to have her; they cut the whole thing off, said it was all infected, told her she couldn't go to work for 5 days or put any weight on it, gave her a ton of drugs and charged us $300 on a credit card I really shouldn't be using and argh, I hate medical care or the lack thereof in this country.

Now she's eating pizza & drinking beer with her friend on my porch. I am the server tonight. Ah well. You shouldn't piss off the toenail gods for they are uncanny and quick to anger. Gah.