I broke my heel.
Okay - "broke" is a strong word. I have Plantar Fasciitis in my left foot and it hurts to the point where I'm now not-so-glad that my kid is a feather-less parrot. Every time I step down I let fly a string of curse words that would make even the heartiest of barkeeps faint and swoon.
And the kid so kindly repeats them.
I should be careful not to say them around him - but I can't stop them - they bubble, they erupt, and he's always in ear shot.
Uh - because sometimes I use his little blond head as a crutch. ahahaha! He's 39" tall - so he's the perfect height. He giggles. I scream. We make a cute, albeit crazy, couple.
When I finally went to the doctor and he gave my my official diagnosis I had no choice but to sit back in my pleather easy chair thing (podiatrists have the swankiest "tables") and cry "THE DAMN INTERNET WAS RIGHT!" because I am an online google doc.
I will google my symptoms and decide that I have cancer.
Then I usually decide I'm too busy to have cancer since I have to raise a kid (and use him as an assistive walking device) and then settle on option number two.
This time it's that the underside of my foot hurts like hell and they, like all the doc and lawyers before us, stuck some fancy latin words together to make it sound better than "Hell heel" or "Heelishisness."
Maybe I should be the one naming stuff that ails us.
I'm renaming the paper cut to "Smuckingfit!" because that just feels better to yell than "PAPER CUT!" which, to be honest, could be that someone cut a piece of paper wrong and does nothing to describe the sheer ickiness of that tiny slice of immense pain that we all know and loathe.
I will also be renaming pregnancy to "Parasitic Procrastinator" or "Paracrastanation" - because that's what it is.
What else shall I rename?