"Reno is a lot like Mayberry on the TV except that everyone's on crystal meth and prostitution's legal." - Travis, Reno 911

Apparently a cousin owns a bar someplace along our trip. Maybe his name is made up, too.

It was Easter, again. I’m not sure who figured that confectionary rabbits were the best way to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus (I mean, really who said, “Son of God returns from the dead, so let’s eat a hollow chocolate bunny.”), but it apparently worked. How do they make hollow chocolate, anyway?

Normally we spend Easter at home, color the eggs, and do all of the normal stuff without having to drive everywhere like meth addicts on, well, meth. Now that The Boy is in school, The Mrs. is reluctant to take him out on a whim (although I point out to The Mrs. in a losing battle that it isn’t medical school it’s first grade, and he already reads and counts better than anyone else) to go places when it’s more convenient for, well, me.

In truth, as busy as I’ve been at work there isn’t really a good time to leave. Normally on Spring Break we go see Pop Wilder at the Wilderbunker, but this year my boss was in the mode that I could only die on the job if I’d fully trained a replacement, so I only took off part of Spring Break. Nothing makes The Mrs. happier than that, me being stuck at work and stuff. Since I like The Mrs. way more than I like my boss, we headed out on Spring Break anyway.

Rather than head to the sandy beaches down Galveston way where I hear aging rock stars are attempting in vain to convince teenage girls that they were all the rage when they were in “Duran Duran”, we headed north, where the temperatures were blissfully colder and more suited to the proto-Viking build favored by Wilder’s the world ‘round. At least when it’s cold out I don’t feel so silly with my horned hat, longboat and battle-ax.

We finally got to The Mrs. home town. It was a long journey, but The Boy and Pugsley hadn’t yet managed to gnaw the upholstery of the car down to the springs, so I put in the win column. When we got there, the big topic of discussion was The Mrs.’ right big toe.

The Mrs. right big toe was swollen and inflamed. I pointed out that The Mrs. had two toes, so perhaps shouldn’t be worried that one was the size of Omaha. In truth, previously that week The Mrs. had asked me to be John Wilder: Civil War Surgeon, and do whatever it was that you can do with garage tools short of amputation (note, a drill press, while being drilly and pressy, isn’t good for home medical use, unless you’re attempting to relieve to pressure on a subdural hematoma). While The Mrs.’ toe was unanesthetized, I was properly anesthetized. I was rather glib during the surgery; I’m not sure that made many points with The Mrs. In true Civil War fashion, I did pour copious amounts of alcohol in me in the wound to make sure it didn’t fester.

The Mrs., like me, has a great desire not to see doctors. I don’t know why she feels that way, but I feel that way because doctors are for sick people, and if I don’t go, then I’m not really sick and will never, ever die. The Mrs. relented to the pressure of her Mom to go and see a doctor. Fortunately the small, Midwestern town we visited had a podiatrist. A podiatrist is a doctor for feet, and has nothing at all to do with Michael Jackson. We visited on a Friday.

After the doctor had done his preliminary exam, and was out of the room waiting for his nurse to set up his instruments, I remarked to The Mrs. that it must be “awfully difficult for a doctor to judge the relative socioeconomic and educational status of his patients” on a first visit since he had refrained from using words of greater than one syllable during her exam. In truth, Internet, I can look like quite a Gomer (as in Pyle) when I’m not working, and you might not think looking at me that I could spell my own name, so I’m kind of a trick question for doctors. The Mrs.? She always looks great and smart, but then again how smart could The Mrs. be if she were married to a Gomer-looking guy like me?

Anyhow, the doctor came back into the room and noted (when I tried to use a little humor on The Mrs. as he was using a battle-ax on her toe) that “that type of levity is often a display of selflessness in marriage,” and further, he’d just been reading the Wall Street Journal® about the current status of the divorce rate in the U.S. and the relative proximate causes thereof. The doctor then pulled out a pair of needle nose pliers medical thingys and whacked a chunk of The Mrs. toenail. Fortunately for The Mrs., this “doctor” anesthetized her. How can you be a good Civil War surgeon if you go around willy-nilly giving your patients anesthesia? Anyhow, the bandaged up her toe and said, “Okay, see you on Sunday, 8:00am.”

Okay, that sneaky doctor had his office right next to our exam room and heard my comment about him having to figure out if we were mouth-breathing morons or if both of us had graduate degrees in Really Cool Stuff. Besides, this doctor was going to see The Mrs. on Sunday? That must go against some sort of AMA® code.

But this particular doctor really did see The Mrs. on Sunday at 8:00 AM because our travel plans had us leaving early Sunday morning. Sunday.

Did I mention that I tried to pay on the way out, but the nurses said, “we don’t know what insurance will pay for, and you look good for it,” so they wouldn’t LET me pay?

Did I mention The Mrs. grew up in Mayberry?

Next: Signs, Mouth Breathers, Smoked Meat, Chinese Paint, and Easter Miracles