Captain Ugly Boot’s Tale of Minor Urinary Incontinence

So this Is the tragic tale of an injured foot, a lackadaisical bladder, a hideous boot and my incredible and inspiring genius.

A couple of weeks ago a sustained a foot injury while sailing. This isn’t quite as impressive as it sounds.  In actuality, someone dropped a wooden folding deck chair across the top my foot; I merely happened to be on a sailboat at the time.  AHYWHOOO

So this foot injury hurts a lot, and I say many swear words (woven into a rich and wry literary tapestry, of course.) By the time we are back on dry land, I am fairly certain that previously aforementioned foot is broken.  This is a bad thing because massage therapists tend to work standing on their feet.  ( I have found that  it unnerves the clients if you lie down beside them…but I digress.)  I begin to debate whether or not I will haul my gimpy self into urgent care.  Being that I currently live in the land of the chronically underinsured, I opt to wait.

I was pleased to notice that as the week progressed my foot was less of a perpetual self torture device and more of a mildly irritating attention whore.  UNTIL…until I opted to wear that pair of boots that is just a wee tad snug.  After a few hours I removed said boot, with help.  I needed help because my foot had decided that swelling while still in the boot would be a fun and glorious idea!  Let’s play can Tina get this boot off of her foot!  Why no Alex, no she cant!…would she like to phone a friend? Why yes, yes she would.  Thankfully,  Carla saw me struggling and offered to help release my foot from its black leather prison.  She is strong like ox and has an amazing onion booty.  ( she hates that term, so of course  I had to use it.)

While setting my foot free I heard a snap.  I am of the mind that at no time should any part of my body opt to simply audibly snap.  Snapping is not a happy sound.  Snapping does not instill confidence.  In no time at all my foot looked like something that would make John Merrick say “Damn girl!  What’s up with that foot?!”  Fine. Emergency Room it is.

The emergency room is filled with the usual suspects – Wackadoos, people who are convinced they are dying of minor colds, the legitimately sick, and those with injuries to various sundry dangling body parts. I was very pleased to see that most people fell into the first two categories, as I have learned, over the years, that dangling body part injuries are ranked just one step below the legitimately ill, and thus I might be out of there in time to see my grandchildren graduate high school.  And it really didn’t take that long…but it was long enough to be too long.  It was long enough to provide time for what will hereto forth be known as the ‘shameful liquid incident’.

Here is a little fascinating tidbit about me.  I have given birth to 4 children, vaginally…two of which were over 9 lbs.  How bodacious is that?! I know, right! And my reward? What my grandmother referred to in charming colloquialism as “spending a penny”.  For those not in the know, this endearing phrase refers to the fact that once you bear young, your bladder develops this kind of laissez-faire indifference to the rest of your bodily functions and totally goes rogue on you.  Laughing, coughing, straining can all cause you to pee yourself a little…hence spending a penny.

Few things elicit this quite as certainly as the sneeze.  This dreaded, involuntary convulsion is pretty much the most direct route to assuring your imminent need for dry undergarments.  If you have warning; if you know its coming, you can try crossing your legs or clenching ever muscle in your body until your face is all scrunchy… and that might help.  Might.  But probably not.  If you don’t know its coming, you’re screwed.  I was screwed.  It goes a little something like this:


I was sitting in my chair in the corner with my foot elevated, desperately trying not to touch anything. (germ phoebe + emergency room = extreme anxiety.)  I never saw it coming.  It hit me like a freight train. ENORMOUS effing sneeze.  Really?  REALLY? I didn’t spend a penny.  I spent more like $0.37.  This was followed rapidly by the realization that there was most defiantly going to be a very noticeable wet spot on the back of my pants.  S#@T! The bathroom is clear on the other side of the very large waiting area!  DOUBLE S#@T!

I finally get the courage to stand up and prepare to start my hobble across the room.  I glance down at the chair only to notice the happy glistening tide pool of my own urine.  Are you kidding me? My brain is at a fever pitch trying to figure out how to get out of this and still retain some semblance of personal dignity. I begin my trek. The distance to the bathroom keeps increasing exponentially like that hallway in ‘The Shining’, but I press onward.  I finally reach the bathroom and am able to reduce some of the damage by fashioning a crude ‘depends’ like garment from paper towels with the hopes that this will absorb the offending moisture from my pants. But this does not resolve my bigger dilemma.  In the waiting room sits a chair with an unceremonious pool of my now cooling urine.  Going out and sopping up the chair would be obvious. nope.  That will not work.  This requires thought and cunning – a plan.  Just when I had nearly given up I am struck by a bolt of sheer genius!

So simple!  So brilliant! So efficient!

On my way back to the swampy waiting room chair, I pause at the counter to chat up the check in guy (who was very cute, I might add.)  I am, frequently,  very good at that whole chatting people up thing.  This night was no exception.  During the course of the conversation I asked if I could have a paper cup so I could get a drink of water.  He was reluctant.  Apparently hospitals like to ensure you are adequately dehydrated before taking your vitals.  I assured him that I would take all responsibility for the fugitive cup, and would, if necessary, tell his supervisor that I had wrestled him to the ground for it.  He laughed and handed me the cup.  My plan was coming together beautifully.

I limped over to the water fountain and filled the cup about  1/3 of  the way, then took a nice big pretend sip, just to be convincing.  I then hobbled unceremoniously back to where my still moist chair sat, still glistening in the florescent illumination.  About a foot away from the chair I tripped!  The water in my cup spilled all over my chair!  Oh clumsy, clumsy me!  Thank goodness I have these paper towels in my purse to clean this up!  Id better sit on a couple just for good measure now, because this silly chair is wet. Oh me oh my!

Scan eyes to the left….scan eyes to the right….everything looks copasetic.  Success!  Now, I will state for the record, that I am generally very straight forward and not prone to elaborate ruses, but this was embarrassing; really embarrassing. And I had no one on hand to help me handle it discreetly.  So while I spent the remainder of my wait in a wet chair, at least I was not forced to sit and stew in my own juices.

In the end, I ended up with a chipped bone and a sprung tendon.  Apparently this particular combination results in being  awarded one hideously ugly piece of orthopedic equipment I fondly refer to as Captain Ugly Boot.  See Below:


Fabulous isn’t it?  The Doctor tells me to wear the boot until my pain is significantly decreased to avoid permanent damage.  She insists that it is a great reminder to go easy on that foot ( oh and shame…don’t forget the shame.)  I ask her if I can have two, so at least it looks like I wore it with intent.  She just chuckled.  Apparently she thought I was joking.

I drive myself home with moist pants and a singular piece of horrific footwear.  I tell my tale of woe to Captain Ugly Boot. He is ultimately, unsympathetic.  He just sits there clinging to my foot like a misshapen Birkenstock experiment gone awry. i pity him a little. I suppose if I was that ugly, I wouldn’t be sympathetic either.

We are still required to keep each other’s company for at least another couple days.  We do not discuss the ‘shameful liquid incident’.


The campaign for landmark beautification (ie my tattoo cover up) is going swimmingly!

We are only $40.00 from our goal!

thank you to all you kooky kids who donated – i promise when this goes down there will be a badass/tattoo in progress photo set with much cleavage involved.  If you haven’t donated yet, don’t miss your chance to be part of this revolutionary event!



Stupidity, Social Darwinism and the RMQ

This message is a public service announcement:

Warning labels for stupid people are pointless.  If they are stupid enough to need truly imbecilic warnings for the appropriate use or description of every day items, then they are clearly too stupid to read said warning label.

Stop trying to save the stupid people!  Stop it!  RIGHT NOW!

Now before I go ass over tea kettles into my diatribe, let me make this exception (so I don’t get hate mail about my general heinousness and political insensitivity.)  Not included in the category of stupid are, small children, developmentally disabled, pets and animals – anyone or anything not capable of caring for themselves.  I’m talking about your average garden variety idiots here.  You may now continue with the previously scheduled rant.

So what prompted this visceral response in me? ( I tend to be a stimulus /response kind of writer- a blogging amoeba, if you will.)  Something seemingly innocuous as renewing my massage therapy liability insurance.  I hade to take a telecourse and sign a waiver to renew my coverage to do hot stone massage.  Why?  because apparently there is an issue with undertrained, hack therapists burning their clients to a crisp with lava hot basalt stones.  The clients don’t seem to like this cant imagine why.

At one point in the video they show a massage therapist wearing industrial grade hazmat gloves to protect his hands as he rubs down his client with his lovely rocks o’hellfire.  I can literally feel my brow furrowing as I yell WTFC!* at my computer monitor.  Common sense would dictate that if the stone is too hot for your delicate little paws then perhaps is a scosh to warm for you clients bare back.  Well Effing Duh!  And yet…here I sit because some jackhole (or many jackholes) have been sued for severely burning their clients.  This brought up the thought – how the hell did these people manage to become licensed massage therapists?  This got me to further pondering (as I often do) stupidity, social Darwinism and what I like to call the RMQ (Relative Moron Quotient).  As I did this, I began looking around my house for other examples of warnings or instructions specifically designed for those rockin ‘ out life at the high end of that scale.  For Example:


Ingredients: Carrots – Well Thank You Mister Wizard!

Oh thank God!  I was so worried that I had somehow picked up a bag of oddly shaped tiny orange dildos in the organic produce section of my local grocery store.  Crisis averted. *Whew!*


This is an enormous packet of desiccant.  It is probably 2 in x 2in.  I can almost understand the warning in a bottle of vitamins, but this one came inside the packaging for a steam iron.  Is anyone really going to open the box and be like “Oh look!  A Treat! How considerate! Why I think I’ll have myself a steam and a snack right now!  Is appliance desiccant consumption really that big of an issue?  Apparently so.


Ok…I understand that  a plastic bag is a suffocation risk…but this warning isn’t for the child…it’s for the idiot adult that needs to be told in bold underline that this, under any circumstances, is not a toy….oh and by the way – don’t use it in playpens or carriages either. O.o

PicMonkey Collage

Ok Really?  Are you effing serious?  I don’t even know where to begin.

Who in the hell is this for?

But I’ve been taking them twice a day faithfully, and nothing is happening! External use only? Ohhhhh.. that explains why my eyelashes haven’t become lovely and lush…and the intestinal blockage.


I have long held the belief that we as human beings should be allowed an allotment of 12 really stupid things a day. Upon performance of the 13th stupid thing, a golden celestial hammer smashes you flat and ensures that you are no longer allowed to piss in the collective gene pool.  My take on Social Darwinism.  You will also be removed if your survival ensures the reduction of the global IQ.  This is determined by Tina’s handy dandy Relative Moron Quotient scale.  It goes something like this:

You forgot your keys.  You need to read the instructions to build Ikea furniture.  You tend to read the precautions before operating heavy machinery. – You are pretty normal. You are probably a 1 or 2 on the RMQ.

You broke your keys trying to pry something open.  You need to read the instructions to heat a can of chili.  You assume you know all the precautions needed for operating heavy machinery. – Use caution…You are nearing the danger zone.  You are probably a five on the RMQ.

You are incapable of figuring out how to use keys.  You need instructions to use a toothbrush.  Your motto is “Precautions are for pussies! I got this!” You are a 10 on the RMQ and you must be eradicated immediately…no I mean it.  Be gone with you.  You are using up precious global resources like oxygen and space…and frankly, I need more storage space.

If you feel my sentiments are offensive or inappropriate, please file your complaint here:


This is Louie the wiener dog, and he approves of this message.


*WTFC – What the fuck Chuck.