Me:  So the doctor’s PA actually said, “might be an MCL tear.”

Him:  MCL tear…you’ll never play ball again with that.

Me:  I know.  Have to get a real job…

Him:  Go into broadcasting, work with Costas.

Me:  Oh hell, not Costas, I can’t look at that man’s eye job all day every day.

My intimates are well acquainted with my recent knee aggrievement, mainly due to the non-stop bitching on my part.  Well, this crap has been ongoing for around two months now.  I’ve seen a quickie doc twice, once for anti-inflammatories and once for a cortisone shot, both of which helped for about two days.

This past weekend saw a return to unprecedented pain after a mere hour in the garden, so, in the interest of kicking things up a notch (and getting a decent night’s sleep for a change) I insisted on a referral to an actual ortho.  Today was The Big Day…popped in, got xrayed up, down and sideways, and consulted with the doc.  The pictures tell the story:

Well no fucking wonder.*

The diagnosis: incipient arthritis, some missing cartilage due to time and wear, and maybe lose some weight, hey?  Then they aspirated the damned thing (about a 5 on the Compares To Childbirth scale), pumped it full of cortisone, and sent me on my way.

Sigh.  I want my immortality back.

*Yeah, that’s not my knee. Sucks to be that dude, amiright?

This is the time on in Sprockets central Florida when we dance start to mildew…

I have a biz trip of sorts next week, so last night saw a visit to the range to re-qual on the .40 Glock.  Pretty sure it went ok…

The real trouble comes after the range time, when you have to walk through the retail area to the exit.  This walk invariably takes about an hour to accomplish, due to the extraordinary number of pretties on display.  I was particularly enamored of a shiny Stoeger coach gun, I’m sure you can see why:

I was less enamored of the new Henry 30-30 however, since it weighs a metric arseload.  Still beautiful though.

One note to gun store employees:  when I ask you a question regarding a firearm, if you turn to my husband to make the answer, I will never spend a dime in your establishment.  I am fairly certain you cannot tell just by looking the relative level of my firearm experience, so assuming I’m just along for the ride makes you a sexist fuck.  I appreciate the fact that you probably have to deal with a good many fingernail-clicking, gum-snapping home skillets who are only interested in the pink guns, but when I ask you for a Schofield-style top-break, you can pretty safely assume I do not fall into that category, and bloody well look me in the eye to make your answer.  Just something to consider.

“Are you alright?”

Not the usual query you’d receive when placing a service call, but damned comforting to hear from Brinks tonight when I called in about the message on the house alarm panel.  Have to appreciate professionalism in customer service.

Oh, and the complete lack of an Indian accent.