I’m another step closer to becoming an Official Texan. No, still no driver’s license. (What the heck?? Seriously, it’s been six weeks now. I wonder if I should call and check on it? I finally gave up on carrying the little dog-eared printout to the airport and started carrying my passport.)
But while I may not have a license, I do have something even better as Texas street cred. Boots! Cowboy boots! My birthday present from D was a shiny pair of red ones. I haven’t had any like them since I was 7, and demanded them for Christmas along with a cowboy outfit from Sears. I didn’t want the cowgirl outfit, because it had a skirt and white boots with fringe on them. I wanted the chaps, and boots with no frilly stuff.
So my new ones came from this big ol’ slice of boot heaven called Cavender’s. They have black boots. Brown boots. Red boots. Tall boots. Short boots. Kids’ boots. Tiny little baby boots. Boots with rhinestone skulls on them. Boots with tall shiny crosses. Boots of all shapes and sizes. Boots with a built-in beer holder.
OK, I made that last one up.
Given the lovely variety at Cavender’s, D insisted we take my red boots back so I could make sure those were the ones I liked best.
We went with friends, and ended up spending a good chunk of time examining 1,234,492 pairs of boots, plus a few shiny belt buckles. I ended up keeping the red ones, and adding a pair of really cool tan-and-blue ones. Those will be my everyday boots, and I’ll save the fancy red ones for when we go line-dancing on the weekends. Given our current frequency of going out line-dancing, we are scheduled to do that again in 2017.
I skipped the shiny belt buckles, even though I was sorely tempted by the one with a shiny little dreadlocked Bob Marley face on it.
And how about those Rangers? In the World Series for the first time! Pretty nifty. Blast from the past: I was handling Page 1 at the Dallas Times Herald on the night of May 1, 1991, when Nolan Ryan threw his seventh no-hitter for the Rangers. (It was the same night that Rickey Henderson stole base No. 939, breaking Lou Brock’s career record. But poor old Rickey kind of got screwed out of his publicity by Nolan’s no-no.) We ripped up Page 1 on deadline, slapping on a headline that said “Seventh heaven.” It was a blast. Now Nolan owns the Rangers, they’re in the Series for the first time, and DFW is going nuts.
At least it takes fans’ minds off of the hapless Cowboys for a bit.
The Great Boot Hunt and the Rangers have been a nice diversion from another bump in the Dallas road. (No, not the huge literal ones that are slowly annihilating our car tires as if they were made of razor-sharp knives.) Another figurative bump, continuing our streak of bad luck since our arrival here.
Turns out that I have a large, fast-growing tumor in my abdomen. It wasn’t there last fall, so it’s something new. Damn. More of my “cells gone wild!” experience, it seems. I’m going under the knife in the morning to remove it, have a complete hysterectomy and let the docs explore a bit to see what else they can find.
I’ve found that it’s never really a good sign when your doctor says, “Oh, geez! This has to come out, like now. What are you doing in an hour?”
I also find the concept of “exploratory surgery” a little bizarre. I imagine my surgeons in a small wooden boat, drifting down an unknown waterway, wearing coonskin caps and pelt coats and carrying useless maps whose undrawn edges read “beyond here there be monsters.” They’ll peer around bends and corners of my liver before exclaiming, “By the starry light above, look, Lewis, we’ve found something else!” “Excellent, Clark! What do you think this possibly could be?” “Well, I do not know, dear Lewis. It is a path unbeknownst to me.”
(Get it? “Path”? A little hospital humor there. Heh. Heh heh heh. I crack me up.)
Despite this little setback, I’m optimistic that my surgeons, wielding shiny new scalpels and miraculous health-care tools like Band-Aids, will be able to scoop out everything bad. That’s if they can cut through my rock-hard, six-pack abs, that is. They might need the Jaws of Life for that. And I’m having to come to grips with the fact that my bikini line will be forever ruined. That’s my story, at least, and I’m sticking to it.
I think there is a high probability that the doctors will discover this mass to be a large clump of cherry Pop-Tart, hiding out there from the days when I used to ingest these small squares of death. At least that’s what my friend Beth, captain of the food police, will say.
While I haven’t had one in a while, I’d kill for one right now. I’ve been barred from eating today, so I’m about ready to gnaw off my own leg. Not eating, as many of you know, has been known to make me really cranky on rare occasions, such as every time it occurs. So you may not want to stop by this evening to visit.
A bright side: my appetite’s been low for a while now, which has severely hampered our continuing crusade to reveal Dallas’ best restaurants. However, I’m quite sure that removal of this Delaware-sized mass from my body will create much more room, thereby allowing for renewed vim and vigor in our gustatory quest.
Anyway… I’ll be off of work for at least six weeks, my doctor says, although of course I believe that I’m Supergirl and will be back in three. At the very least, I’ll be jumping into the email stream well before then. And what else will I have to do but blog? I’m thinking the drugs will make my writing even stranger than it usually is. I’ll bet you can’t wait.
So, I’ll see you when I come up for air. I’m sure I’ll be reaching for my laptop as soon as the anesthesia wears off. Later!