TMI Thursday (complete with pictures)

Country started it.

I just want to make that clear.

It’s not my fault that her recent singledom has convinced men to buy her coffee, drinks, and dinner. I might be taken, but Apache is out of the country and unable to spoil me. So sue me that I am only too happy to follow Country’s lead. We convinced her electrician stalker to buy us lunch, and Dawson only too happily bankrolled both dinner and drinks last week at Golden Greek & the Golden Eagle.

Saturday, Country & I decided we should convince Dawson to again buy us dinner. We dressed up and met him at Ruby Tuesdays not that far from his house. He drives a big Chevy Silverado—we may as well save him some gas $.

We ate dinner and drank. I was two Sangrias in by the time we decided we should find another bar. Brookside’s, near Foxwoods Casino, with its mechanical bull was calling our name. YeeHaw!

Country laid it on thick, flashing her new knee high boots, and rubbing them up Dawson’s leg. Resistance was futile.


We left the restaurant and started to walk out to the car. Country was flirtatiously trying to get Dawson to let her drive his truck. Suddenly, a crazy pain shot through my leg and I just dropped.

I had twisted my ankle the week before—the hospital had xrayed it, saw nothing broken, and just sent me home.

Dawson carried me to my car, with Country driving his truck and drove me to the hospital. I have never been in so much pain all my life. I blacked out a couple of times, and spent the rest of the time screaming at Dawson to “shut the fuck up” because he was giving my mom (on the phone) a play-by-play of what he thought was wrong with my ankle.

Triage sent me to Xray, and my mom wheeled me to xray. The woman, Suzanne, took one look at me and told me to go back to Triage:

“Why? Triage said they sent down an x-ray order?”

“You need a pregnancy test.” I laughed, absolutely dumbfounded.

“There’s not a cold chance in hell I’m pregnant. My boyfriend is…”

“How old are you?”

“24, but there really is no…”

“ I don’t care. You still need a pregnancy test. Go.”

Mom wheeled me back, and by that point I was absolutely livid. Not only was there no way in hell I’m pregnant – trust me I WISH I had reason to doubt because then it meant I actually would have gotten some in the last two months—but I had a possible broken ankle. How the HELL was I going to hover long enough to pee on a stick?

To top it all off, I couldn’t get back in the ER because the doors were locked. Country and Dawson were doubled over in laughter, and finally the door unlocked. Mom totally opened the door INTO my ankle. Fucking lovely.

So I sat in the waiting room while Triage argued with Xray. I still had to take the damn pregnancy test, and was half tempted to have Dawson help me. He was such a good sport driving me to the ER, that I decided against it.

They sent us into a room and we were pretty loud and obnoxious. Country coerced Dawson into giving her a back massage (on the bed while I sat pitifully in a wheel chair.)

To make a long story short, I have a Stage III sprained ankle which means nothing other than I'm in a nifty splint and I get to have regular visits my hunky orthopedic surgeon who looks alot like an older version of Apache. As an added bonus, he's the former team surgeon to the New York Mets, so we get to talk baseball.

My extremely swollen ankle. Forgive the unpedicured toes. They had to wipe off my nail polish to check my ciruclation

Country. In my wheelchair. with the infamous boots. I want a pair.