Friday, December 29, 2006

It Wasn't The Night Before Christmas

It was still dark when I sat up on the edge of the bed, placed my elbows on my legs, and my chin on my hands. My eyes weren’t focusing. I felt, rather that saw, Kat’s sleep-locked eyes open blearily and fix on my back.

“Are you in pain, baby?”

“Fuck no, I growled. “I always sit on the edge of the bed and groan in agony when I’m feeling fine.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Her voice was full of concern.

“Yeah, roll over, shut up, and go back to sleep.” She listens well. I felt her hands begin to knead my lower back. There was no point in arguing with her.

“You need to see the carepractor,” she told me. Here in Manitoba, folk seem to visit the chiropractor more often than they go to church and they are a holy bunch of joes. I still haven’t figured out why they call them carepractors.

“Make me an appointment,” I surrendered. She has been trying to talk me into a chiropractic visit for the last six months. I’ve been to a lot of chiropractors and only one of them had been able to do me any good. He was in Kansas City and shoulder surgery had taken him out of the game. The pain had reached a level that cowboying up had finally worn thin.

I got up and moaned my way into a hot shower. It helped about as much as two sips of water helps a person dying of dehydration. In case you’re interested, that ain’t one hell of a lot. Caffeine and nicotine opened my eyes but did nothing for my back.

It’s damn near christmas. Almost all of my favorite blogger reads are either being as lazy as a fat old dog in front of a fireplace or they’re out doing christmasie things. Either way, there were mighty slim pickings in the reading department. Spider solitaire whupped my butt every game. There was little joy in Manitoba.

I ‘spect it was oneish when we left to pick up Kat’s Mom. It was another designated baking day. This time it was perschki. Don’t ask me how to pronounce it. I had to ask Kat three times how in the hell to spell it. As near as I can tell, it is a Ukrainian tidbit. They thinly roll out a sheet of dough, cut it with a biscuit cutter, and then cover the dough with seasoned, ground meat. The dough is folded, the edges pinched shut, and then it is tossed in the oven. It must be popular because they have baked enough to feed a fair-sized state.

Buffalo, again showing his wisdom, stayed the hell out of their way. He did a little writing and then immersed himself in a Dean Koontz novel until it was time for a visit to the ‘carepractor.’

From the house it takes about as long to reach the clinic as it does to smoke a cigarette. I noticed that gas had taken a ten cents a litre jump in price. It never ceases to amaze me that we continue to allow the gas companies to gouge us every holiday. I suppose we have come to enjoy being bent over and made a bitch by King Petrol.

I parked just outside the office and followed Kat into the foyer. She bent over and started untying her shoes – her winter boots, not the high heeled sneakers. “Whatcha doin’,” I wanted to know.

“Taking off my boots.” There was that tone in her voice that said, ‘well, duh.’ I can’t say that I particularly appreciated it.

“And why are you removing your boots, darling?” I asked in the sweetest voice that I could muster.

“You always take off your shoes when you go to the carepractor.” There was that damned tone again.

“Not where I come from, baby girl. That is freakin’ stupid. Why in the hell would you take off your shoes? That doesn’t make sense.” She didn’t bother answering. She just pointed to a sign on the inner door that did, indeed, instruct one and all to remove their shoes.

“And why is that?” I demanded.

“I don’t know. That is the way it is everywhere. It’s the way it is done.” In my book that is a piss-poor explanation. I didn’t seem to have any recourse but to go along with it. For a couple of minutes I debated leaving my boots on, then decided against it. Hell, maybe it was some kind of a tradition; sort of showing respect in a fashion similar to entering a dojo. I wondered if I was supposed to bow too.

The receptionist, who sported a haircut that I truly hope she hadn’t had to pay for, asked if she could help us. Kat told her that we were there for Buffalo’s three o’clock appointment. She hands Kat the clipboard that held the questionnaire and the releases. I stood with my mouth hanging open while Kat is asked questions about me and told how to fill out the forms.

“Ah, miss,” I interjected. “I’m not a drooling idiot. I’m not illiterate. I can answer questions about me and I can fill out the forms. I’ve done it once or twice over the years.” She lets an interesting little look flash across her face for a quick moment, and then she hands the clipboard to me. I prove that I can, indeed, fill out the damned forms.

The chiropractor was a young guy – but then damned near everyone seems young to me anymore – with a Donny Osmond smile and black hair. He didn’t ask me my mother’s maiden name and I think that is the only one he skipped. I answered all of his questions and assured him that I had no existing physical condition that would be made worse by the judicious practice of chiropractic treatment. And then he wanted to know if I had any questions.

Well, sir, I surely did. Just one little question.

Apparently there are a goodly number of hog and cattle farmers who visit the chiropractor. They have been known to come straight from the corrals and pens without having paused to change foot wear. Which pretty much means they track shit throughout the office. The same is said for snow and ice in the winter. So no shoes means fewer times the carpet has to be cleaned and/or replaced. During the summer, if someone is wearing sandals, they don’t mind so much – assuming the person hasn’t been wading in shit all day.

I laid myself face down on the worktable – whatever in the hell you call it. Allow me to assure you that I was fully clothed, Kat was in the room with me, and the doc was as straight as a string. I mention this only because there are some ate-up individuals who would try to turn this into something…not seemly.

He did his snap, crackle, pop thing and didn’t do it too badly. When he popped my neck, I had to tell him it was damn near better than good sex. All in all, I am pleasantly surprised.

I surely wish there was a pearl of wisdom I could offer. I wish there was a moral to this tale. The sad thing is, there ‘taint neither and that is just the freakin’ way it goes.

Life is sweet – because I am without morals. As far as that goes, can't say that I have many scruples or inhibitions either. Dang!
Buffalo 10:46 AM

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