Toasted

Let me give you some life changing advice. Advice that will bring you a lifetime of happiness and relief. Advice that will forever bring you peace and gratitude. Listen very closely. You don’t want to miss this. Never ever, under any circumstance, not even for large amounts of money, sit outside at a Driller Game at 2:00pm on an Oklahoma summer day for 3 hours. You will fry as quickly as McDonald employees can pop out those artificially flavored “french fries”. Considering I wore shorts and sat on a chair in the open blazing sun, my knee caps are seared beyond belief. It hurts to stand. It hurts to walk. It even hurts to circulate blood through my legs.

I’ve taken every step of action to prevent the constant burning sensation. I’ve taken a steaming hot shower and then took a frigid cold shower. I put aloe vera on the burns. Unsurprisingly, nothing worked. My mother then presented me with an obscure mode of attack that only a true Oklahoman could even imagine. She claims to have seen her farmer neighbor pour pickle juice all over his burnt arms. Pickle juice? Really? My miserating pain forces me to consider all options and agree to this bizarre idea.

She pours the refrigerated pickle juice into a cup and gently dips cotton balls into the acidic liquid. I brace myself for the science experiment that is about to take place on my own body. I’m always the one controlling the experiments, never actually the “experimental group”. As the first drip of pickle juice runs across my burn, thousands of nerve impulses overload their way up my spine into my brain alerting my nervous system that my mother has betrayed me and stabbed a dull knife into my skin. When I open my eyes to look at the point of my excruciating pain, I expect to see blood pouring out my body. No blood. Just a simple drip of juice trickling down my epidermis. I intensely stare deep into my mother’s soul as if saying, “Seriously”? My loud, girlish squeals must have frightened my mom as she becomes hesitant to continue the medical procedure. I grip the seat cushion and grunt at her to keep pouring the toxic poison on my sensitive, broiled skin. My father’s under-the-breath chuckles are not appreciated. I contemplate throwing the foul smelling pickle juice on him. Fortunately for him, I control my emotions.

The process is now over and I can honestly say that mothers always do know best. It ripped the pain right out of every pore in my knees. Now I must try to waddle to my bed so I can get a rough night’s sleep. Work comes in the morning. This will be a very, very interesting day at Keystone Equipment Company. Lord help me.