Friday, May 31, 2013

The Flippy-Flappy Of Giant Feet

Is it wrong of me to find my own flesh-and-blood's appendages off-putting? Is that frowned on? Because if it is, I won't dwell on it here. Huh. No responses. So I guess I am at liberty to spout off about my offspring's flippers.

Okay, it's The Pony's feet we're talking about. I can't even imagine calling them hooves. That would bring to mind Mary O'Hara's description of Flicka's filly, Touch and Go, with her hooves so dainty they would fit in a teacup. Not my Pony. His feet would not fit in a violin case. They are long, flexible flappers. He flaunts them relentlessly.

The Pony does not like to wear shoes. I told him tonight he would be that hippie guy on Discovery Channel's Dual Survival. The dude who won't wear shoes. Who walks through snow and rocks and pine needles barefoot. The only time I saw him with shoes was in the desert, when he sawed open a deceased cow and used its hide for soles. The Pony scoffed. We both know he would never put soles on his feet.

I simply don't like feet. Even on my own son. They don't stink. That's because they get so much air they practically make their own Febreze. His toes are long and grippy. Any time I ask him to hand me something, like the TV remote, he says, "With my feet?" We both know the answer to that. He picks up my couch blanket and repositions it on the arm by using his feet. He picks up his food wrappers and puts them in the trash bag by using his feet. When we go somewhere, he puts on his Adidas slides. Then takes them off in T-Hoe.

Today we went bill-paying, and my mom rode along. I had The Pony put my 44 oz. Diet Coke refill cup in the back, so it didn't get smashed before I could fill it with my magical elixir. After Mom got out, I asked for the cup. The Pony carefully handed it to me.

"I knew I would be pushing it if I used my feet."

Indeed. He then proceeded to prop one on the side of the shotgun seat. That's because he rides behind me, you know. So there was that hairy long toeful flipper staring at my side-face the whole way home. It was all I could do to stay on the road.

I think The Pony was smiling smugly the whole way. I refused to give him the satisfaction of a wretch or gag. But I deserve a gold medal world record for stifling.


Kathy's Klothesline said...

Feet don't bother me, but toenails do. As a new nurse in the ER, I was forced to watch a particular doctor remove ingrown toenails rather frequently. This was in the 70's and he had a sadistic routine that he seemed to enjoy. He liked to "teach" as he went along. He once told me to prevent ingrown toenails, one should cut a "V" in the toenail. To this very day my big toes sports that "V". The theory being that the nail will grow to the middle to compensat for that defect. I have never had an ingrown toenial since.

Hillbilly Mom said...

I could hardly bring myself to read that, because, well, it's about FEET! I've never had an ingrown toenail, but if I hear somebody complain of one, I'll pass along that info. IF I can keep from gagging.