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Community Corner

Finding a Way to Gain After All the Pain

Forget Obama Care, a little child care is all it takes to make Ba-ba all bette

Some days are worse than others. (Just ask Hosni Mubarak).

This one really sucked.

I’m already dealing with a stress fracture in my right foot that has me in a klutzy walking boot and off the tennis courts for a couple of months. And those closest to me know that this is a time to stay farthest from me … or is it furthest?

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Anyway, I don’t do sedentary all that well. If I end up in the hospital and you know any nurses, tell them to call in sick … or have a tranquilizer gun handy.

And if I can’t work up a sweat and vent my need to compete on the tennis court, I’ll end up figuring out a way to do it in the kitchen or the family room. Maybe work myself up into a full-voiced rant and wave my arms around like a madman for 10 minutes. (Picture Hitler at the Reichstag in 1939.)

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So Goggy, the Stay-at-Home-Mom with the master’s degree and even the Sous Chef, on the rare occasion she emerges from the restaurant, know to steer clear. Only AngelFace, the 2-year-old granddaughter, figures she has a free pass (having never seen the dark side of Ba-ba).

The Bee-choodle has taken to sitting forlornly in front of the running shoes I wear on our once-daily three-mile walks or staring at her leash hanging near the side door of the garage and whining. She must think I’ve got dementia and simply forgot our morning routine.

And maybe a bout of amnesia wouldn’t be all bad because I might not remember what a complete mess I am.

My lower back, a longtime nemesis, is tweaked just enough to provide a constant reminder I’m a thousand years old. I’ve got one of those nagging colds that completely restricts breathing through your nose at night—so you wake up with a tongue that feels like a piece of wood. And then I woke up with a painful stiff neck, so now I look like a fat periscope while manuevering to see what’s going on around me. (While driving, I just take my chances when changing lanes … it hurts too much to swivel and check to see if the coast is clear.)

But then came the pièce de résistance … which turned out to be a piece of my left index finger.

About 10 minutes after sharpening our knives to razor edges, I discovered that the Bee-choodle’s suspicions of my dwindling mental faculties might be pretty on-target. I was cutting up some meat to make burritos. I had my left hand in the correct claw position, but apparently the tip of my finger wasn’t clear on the concept. The blade caught my fingernail about midway from the tip and sliced through and down, removing much of the nail and about a quarter of an inch of flesh attached to it.

It took about a dozen paper towels and a bungee cord—my right hand started to cramp from holding pressure on my finger—to stop the blood flow. And now I’ve got a finger shaped like a tiny doorstop.

(The burritos were safe … no chance of inadvertent cannibalism. I found the detatched digit and disposed of it. … OK, after making sure I couldn’t stick it back on.)

So now I have to type this column without using a key instrument of my trade because when I try to use it, the bandage hits about three keys at a timertg. (See what I mean? It’s like typing with one of those giant foam "We’re No. 1" hands.) Sure, some of the stuff I write is jibberish, but it’s almost always jibberish that’s spelled correctly.

Mama said there’d be days like this, but I’m not sure she envisioned me in this state: a limping, bent-over, stiff-necked, hacking hack with a missing fingertip.

I know of only three things that can make me forget all that ails me. The first two—a quart of Wild Turkey or a call to Dr. Kervorkian—offer either too short-term or too long-term a solution. So I opt for the third choice and make hasty arrangements to take my favorite person to our favorite place.

AngelFace and I make an emergency run to the San Diego Zoo.

“Jake and Riley, Ba-ba?” she asks after I pick her up and we head south on the freeway.

“Yep,” I say, “we’ll see the the sea lions show.”

“Elmo and Katie, Ba-ba?”

“Sure, we’ll go to the petting zoo and see the miniature horses.”

“Baby train, Ba-ba?”

“Always, AngelFace, we always take a ride on the little train in front of the zoo … and, yes, the carousel, too.” (The kid has been read too many highfalutin books; she doesn’t even call it a merry-go-round, always “carousel.”)

 AngelFace and I take the bus tour to save wear and tear on Ba-ba’s neck, back and foot … the finger is OK as long as I don’t smack into the seat in front of me while swiveling to catch a glimpse of a jaguar. (I manage to keep my reaction to: “Holy moly!”)

“You hurt finger, Ba-ba?” she asks, brow furrowed with concern. “Me kiss?’’

We ride the Skyfari over the park … and then back again. We see the show with the swooping condors and howling wolves and, of course, Jake and Riley, sea lions that dance the mambo and kiss little girls from the audience. We pet the goats and miniature horses.

And we finish by sharing a soft-serve ice cream cone, chocolate and vanilla swirl.

I ask AngelFace which flavor she likes best.

“Na-gella!” she announces, then takes another lick.

“And choc-o-lot!”

You know, some days are better than others.

This one was really great.

About this column: John Weyler has lived in Orange County for almost 50 years. His weekly regional columns will offer his unique, and often irreverent, take on life in the O.C. 

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