And speaking of old...

Hayden was planning on spending the night at his grandma's house in Owensboro on Saturday night.  Any time he spends the night with a grandparent, Jennifer and I try to eat out at an adult place.  By 'adult place' I don't necessarily mean a bar or club type place, just a place where they don't hand your color crayons when you sit down.  It was a big night for me because not only was Jennifer buying, but I got to pick the restaurant.

For years, I've been wanting to get back to Western Sizzlin' and tackle their salad bar.  I never go when I'm buying because I'm not spending 9 bucks on salad (I'll drop $190 on a bottle of beer, but not nine on a salad...yeah, weird, I know) but when it's someone else's money, that's where I want to go.

As it turns out, I wasn't missing much in all these years.  There was nothing wrong with the restaurant itself, just its clientele.  I wasn't sure if I was at a restaurant or a high school reunion for the class of 1917.  Aside from maybe a hospital, I've never seen so much blue hair.

I'm not much of a fan of old people and my trip to the salad bar didn't change any of my perceptions.  As soon as I grabbed my plate, I just stood there and waited for my turn.  And I waited and I waited.  In front of me were a handful of old people.  My first thought was, "Jeez, old people are short."  I'm only 5-10 and I'm pretty sure I'm already shrinking because I'm getting old (so I may not be 5-10 anymore), but I towered over these people.

Also, it should be noted that I don't like little people either.  Little people are just, I don't know what the word is, weird.  In talking with Jennifer on the way home, we confirmed that basically I don't like people who are different than me.  So there you have it.

Anyway, back to the old, little people.  After waiting in line for a couple minutes, my plate was still empty.  Most of the problem wasn't necessarily the little old guy in front of me, but the hundred year old lady in front of him.  I'm not exactly sure what her problem was, probably wasn't familiar with the modern technology of tongs, but it didn't take much time to realize the little old guy in front of me wasn't exactly Speedy Gonzales himself.

I thought maybe I should jump into the other line, but then I noticed an old guy in a wheel chair and figured I was screwed either way, so I relented and remained in my current spot.  The little old guy in front of me was starting piss me off to the point that I considered asking if I could either pass him or make the damned plate for him.  After making his little bed of lettuce, he slowly added a cherry tomato.  Then another.  Then another.  And finally another.  That took three minutes, but he wasn't done because the fourth cherry tomato had moved and he had to carefully place it in its original position.  Don't want them too close together.

Next he went after the shredded carrots.  He really struggled with using the tongs to retrieve the shredded carrots.  His dexterity didn't improve with the shredded radishes.  By the time we got to the shredded cheese I'd been in line for the better part of 10 minutes and I was starting to become annoyed at these little old people.  However, I sucked it up and kept my mouth shut.  I figured they'd be dead in a few minutes anyway and then I could move up in line, so I just dealt with it.

Eventually I made my way back to my seat and dug in.  It was just as good as I remembered.  I cleaned the plate and don't remember chewing.  The timing was really good because the little old people had either died or fallen asleep and my next two trips to the salad bar went as planned with almost no waiting.

While eating, I learned that old people are very loud.  You'd think they'd be quiet, but they're mostly deaf so they have to scream so they can hear each other.  One good thing about the situation is that it made me feel young.  At 43 years old, I was a good 75 years younger than the average age of the surrounding tables.

When we finished, I figured my night of dealing with little old people was over.  I was wrong, because not long after we got back home, Jennifer's mom called and said Hayden didn't feel well and wanted to come home.  At 7:15, Jennifer and I hopped back in the car and headed to Owensboro.

We got to Grandma's house just after 8:00.  We didn't see Grandpa; Jennifer said he was probably upstairs in his office, but I think he was already in bed.  Not sure I've ever seen him up that late.  As I walked into where Hayden was sleeping (yep, he was already asleep, pretty sure we wasted a trip), I started to notice an amazing stench.  No, it wasn't 'old people smell,'  it smelled more like shit.

I had two thoughts.  First, because Hayden wasn't feeling well, I thought maybe he farted and didn't put the brakes on soon enough and left himself with peanut butter cheeks.  The other thought was that Austie, Grandma's hundred year old dog, had dropped ass on the floor somewhere.

I'm pretty sure Austie has been dead for a couple years now.  Grandma can't accept that he died, but I'm pretty sure he's running in the big field in the sky.  We watched him a while back and I referred to Austie as 'Dead Dog Walking' because he had a couple paws in the coffin back then.  Austie was a good dog, but he's got to be over a hundred in people years and he's on so many drugs/vitamins that he might be a vegetable right now.

So, back to the ass smell in the air.  Grandma explained that when Austie drops ass outside, sometimes dropped ass gets stuck in his fur (he's a Golden Retriever, basically a big fur ball).  She said, "We wipe, but I guess we don't always get it all."  Seriously, I didn't make up that last part.

Poor Grandma, Austie goes outside to take a nice dump, he's been dead for months so he typically falls over at least once per shit trip, and then Grandma wipes his behind when he's done.  Instead of showing some respect and letting the poor dog go to heaven where his brothers and sisters have been waiting for 25 years, Grandma can't let go, 'because Austie likes it here.'  Again, not making this up.

(For the record, Grandma is an amazing women.  Despite being a Democrat, I think she's a great lady and is really a great Grandma.  However, she's got control issues.  TOTAL.  CONTROL.  FREAK.  Earth doesn't revolve around the Sun, everything revolves around Grandma)

On the drive back to Evansville, all I could think of was how I'm supposed to stomach Thanksgiving turkey when the whole house smells like Austie's rectum.  I'm not looking forward to the holidays.

And speaking of old...I'm pretty sure I'm closer to old than I am to young.  I'm afraid my mini marathon training is currently on hold.  I broke the 3-mile barrier on Thursday and took the day off Friday to rest.  On Saturday I went back out for a long run, hoping to knock down the 4-mile mark, but before I got out of the driveway, my left foot started to ache with each step.  I don't recall stepping on a rock, twisting an ankle, or anything that might have hurt a foot.  I carried on for just under 3.5 miles and struggled to walk the rest of the night.

Yesterday was football day and I was hoping to get in a nice run before the games started, but it wasn't going to happen.  Last night I decided to stay in the recliner to take a load off my feet, but today it's no better.  I'm not a doctor, but my two guesses are a bruise or a stress fracture.  I read about stress fractures and it said it happens to fat bastards who start exercising and progress too quickly.  Hmmm, guilty as charged.

The internet (everything you read on the internet is true) said to rest and if it doesn't get better in a week to go see a doctor.  My oldness is starting to work my nerves.  I was finally in a position where my legs and lungs could handle longer distances and then a different part of my body wimps out.  I'm such a pussy.

Stay tuned...