Confession time . . .

I’m envious of those folks who can speak another language(s). My lovely wife is one of those. She speaks French “like a Frenchman” without all the surrendering. It came in handy when we were on a cruise and snuck off on our own in a french-speaking country.

Now that doesn’t mean I haven’t tried. Being a Native New Mexican, I took Espanol for 4 years in Elementary school and for 3 years in High school. I can count to 1000 (mil for those who don’t speak the lingo), I can put proper pronunciation on many names, and I used to be able to conjugate the verb “go”. But it just didn’t stick. Same with German. Despite hours of watching “Hogan’s Heroes” as a youth, and many a trip to Deutschland in recent years, all I can do (kinda) is order a beer (or two beers) which is actually a good skill to have over there. I can say Danke and let servers in restaurants know I want regular bottled water and not mineral water.

But all that changed the other night. . .

It happened as I was walking in my stocking feet and got a little close to the corner. I caught the wall with the majority of my toes on my right foot sans the big toe (I’m pacing myself, Sgt. Hulka) and there was a quite audible and somewhat distressing series of crunching noises.

It was a spiritual moment.

Had to be, cause I was calling out to God in tongues! Maybe it was Esperanto. I don’t know because I couldn’t understand it, and frankly my dear, at that moment I didn’t give a darn! The pain was excruciating! Like watching the impeachment hearings. Ok, it wasn’t THAT bad, but it was enough to have the girls rush in and ask what was going on. I couldn’t make them understand between the mixture of sobs and laughing that only the hysterically insane can understand. Handy tip . . . don’t try to give someone the third degree when they can’t talk. Nobody wins.

Anyway . . .

Only two of the toes are/look broken. Wanna see?