This All Ends With Me Praising My Husband, If You Can Believe That

Driving home from work today, I was doing what all the cool kids do -- listening to NPR -- when I heard BP was going to "solve" the oil spill problem in the Gulf of Mexico by putting a DOME over the broken pipe that is spitting oil.


Well played, BP.  Not only are you drawing on The Simpsons in the time of crisis,

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but you managed to ignore the fact that the oil is already all over the freaking place and floating on the surface of the water.  Way to go.


So, I didn't really have a whole post ready to go on this ... that was as far as I got.  You know, that I think that idea is stupid.  


But watch this:  Okay, the oil spill is a big, gross problem that is not being fixed.  You know what else is a big, gross problem that is not being fixed?  My HUGE SWOLLEN FEET AND ANKLES.


I have never seen such a thing is all my life.  I guess whenever I heard about swollen feet before now, I was always like, "Heh.  I bet that won't happen to me."  Burn, former self.  Burn.


I have a girlfriend who was mad about her swollen feet because she was angry with herself and irrationally thought there must be something she could have done to avoid it.  I am not mad so much as horrifically disgusted.  I can't stop staring at my feet, which look disturbingly like hams on toothpicks, and I get the major voms.  I am feeling the biggest vomity-vom-vomitness of all time.  

I am repulsed by myself.  I mean, you couldn't SEE my nausea every waking moment of my first trimester.  You can't SEE my stiff lower back.  But these Flintstone feet.  Oh, you can see them.  And I just want to hide in my house with my feet propped up on a pillow while I stare at my deformed body and cry.


So, much like the horror that is the oil spill, I am not finding a solution to the problem.  My dome is convincing my husband to rub my ham feet when I get home from work.  He is really racking up his sainthood points lately.  I mean, even *I* won't touch those nasty feet.


I guess the moral of this story is that my husband rocks the casbah.  Well played, Dimick. Take a bow.