I wear a size 8 shoe...

I know this because today I was feasting on my shoe.  In my mouth.  I can't say I enjoyed it, but it did make me laugh.  So, in light of the fact that my poor husband has had his good name drug through the mill of laughter, I daresay it is my turn!

Don't you just love those moments where you insert your foot into your mouth?  How about the time you asked the poor lady when she was having the baby?  Yea, I thought so.  Or how about when you asked Jim at the office how his mom has been and the reply:  She died a year ago...  Yea.  Or maybe when you said to the mother of the child, "how old is your granddaughter?"  That sentence came out of someone's mouth that I love a lot.  Name withheld to protect the guilty.

So today was one of my more quality moments.  My dear father is accruing some serious frequent flyer miles with all of his trips back and forth to the hospital.  He had his surgery on March 8th and he has yet to recover from his first surgery.  He is on his third trip to OSU Medical Center and we are getting pretty tight with the staff there.  I'm thinking we are going to have them for dinner over the holidays.  It also isn't that strange for me to run into someone who is caring for him that is from our area or at least somewhere close to our area.  That whole "It's a Small World" Disney song comes floating through my brain sometimes when we connect with a "oh you know so and so...".

So today as I was sitting in my dad's hospital room I was checking Facebook on my not so smart, smart phone.  I noticed that one of my friends put pictures up of the river in our area that is prone to flooding and she was saying how it was rising.  We have just recovered from flooding that had occurred in our area and I was telling Dad that the river was going up again.  So he voiced his concern about the local ice cream place and how he hopes it doesn't get flooded!  That is the most important place, ya know!  Then he named off a couple other establishments and some small talk ensued.  Meanwhile, his nurse is just plugging away and doing her job.

So while we are chatting about this and that, Dad says something about one particular place in town and I say, "yea, I don't know about that place... they are kinda redneck-y."  I mean, is redneck-y a word?  It is today.  Then we move on to another subject and eventually it rolls around to where my foot came charging at me full speed ahead!

My father could have told me this earlier, but did he?  NO.  Why?  Because I'm sure he wanted to see me sweat and cringe and recoil in pain at my fool foot going into my mouth.  He's good for a laugh too.  OK, I'm sure he wasn't thinking that because he is ill.  His goal is to live at this point so I'm sure he isn't planning on how to make my foot fit into my mouth.  Nope.  I did that one all on my own.  Quite eloquently too.

We were chatting with the nurse and lo and behold, she practically lives right around the corner from us!  How nice.  And would you believe she is from the same town I'm from?  Seriously!  How nice.  And would you believe that her family owns that redneck-y establishment I referred too?  How nice.  Can you see my foot plunging ahead yet?  OH. MY. STARS!!!  I just had an "AH-HA!" moment.  I just called her family "REDNECK-Y".  Not just her distant relatives either.  Nope.  If I'm doing it, I'm doing it good.  It was her immediate family.

OH LAWSIE, Y'ALL!

However let me first say this: my kin hails from Kentucky.  Louisa/Blaine, Kentucky.  I can't say I've been there a lot, but they are from there.  My dad still goes down to Kentucky and hangs in the hollars.  Shoot, we have family that makes their own moonshine.  They probably grown their own cannabis too!  I'm just sayin'.  My dad tells me stories of when they were kids how you didn't go to the door at night in the hollar unless you were carrying your gun because you just didn't know if Bubba was a comin' ta git ya!

So I know some redneck-y behavior when I see it.  And I done seen it that one day that is seared in my memory forever.  I'm not being a hater when I call someone a redneck.  It's in my blood.  Sorry kids.  You thought you came from more noble blood. 

I had reason to enter one of the above mentioned establishments.  A professional establishment.  There are thousands of these places across America and I happen to like this particular company.  A lot.

The day I went in I was anticipating being in there for about 15-20 minutes.  Well, I was proved wrong.  This trip in took me about 45 minutes.  The redneck-y part comes in during the first 2 minutes of me being in the "establishment".  I was directed to one of the people working there and she wasn't real sure what was going on.  I had to explain what I needed her to do and she still looked puzzled.  Then the other person working there explained to her what to do. 

Now maybe she was new, so I was gracious the whole time.  However, the finger licking part sent me over the edge.

I have a thing about germs.  I'm not a total germ-a-phobe, but I can't say my favorite thing to do it use public restrooms or lick door knobs.  They carry germs.  Men have no clue about this, but seriously, when you walk into a stall and the toilet seat looks like someone did the hula over the toilet, I'm a little grossed out.  The same goes for employees at an establishment where you expect certain standards of cleanliness.  I anticipate that the employee is not going to continue eating a can of nuts after I come in and sit across from then at their desk.  Nor will that person lick their fingers then ask for my "thing" that needed to be turned over to them for fixing.  That kinda grosses me out.

So you see?  I was traumatized.  Licked fingers then touching my stuff.  Ewww.  That is kind of tacky.  Or redneck-y.

Somehow I don't think my dad's nurse would have appreciated that story.  I don't know her sense of humor so maybe she would have laughed.  I will never know because hopefully I will never see her again.  What are the chances though?  My Dad's nurse.  Being from here.  AND having IMMEDIATE family that operates said establishment. 

Oh I felt shame.  I wanted to bury my head in the sand, or at the very least, crawl under my Dad's bed.  But the germ level under his bed was probably enough for biological warfare.  So I just came home.

Most sincerely,
Tammy "looking for a backhoe to dig my foot out"