First of all, I wrote an article this week about how we all grew up in Utah spreading rumors that every celebrity was Mormon. You should at least click on it and pretend to read it. That way The Beehive will think I'm super popular and then they'll immediately cut me a check for $250,000 dollars. That's the way this industry works.

Second of all, I finally decided to address my foot disease. And by "I" I mean "Skylar" and by "address" I mean "threaten every kind of divorce unless I considered amputating at least one limb."

Look. This is the grossest thing about me. You're about to hear the grossest thing about me. What you're going to hear from me is not something you can give back.

Keep in mind, this warning is coming from someone who has repeatedly posted a picture of his toenail-less toe with photo-shopped hair all over the internet.

Speaking of, the infected foot is actually Tami's address. Part of it, anyway. Her full address, in case you want to send her letters or beauty products or birthday presents (July 24) is:

Tami the Big ToeOn The Right Leg, Unit 1, Eli McCann's Foot,

It's the only address I personally know that also works as a haiku.

Where was I? Oh yes, foot disease.

Skylar has been mad about this foot situation pretty much since he moved in with me at the end of 2016. Most of the anger stems from the fact that I didn't disclose the situation until after he carried his boxes and boxes and boxes and boxessss of sweaters into my house.

After that it became a source of contention and negotiation.

Skylar badly wanted me to go see a doctor "or an exorcist!!!!" but I repeatedly refused because lazy and tv and candy and stuff. Pretty soon he started using it as a settlement offer for our most common disputes.

"I will take Duncan for a walk every day this week if you will make an appointment to see a doctor about your condition," he would say.

I always responded with something that vaguely seemed like a firm commitment but if you broke it down it actually wasn't, like "that sounds like a fantastic deal and I love you for thinking of it!" Then he would do the thing I wanted and I wouldn't do the thing he wanted and he would be like "YOU PROMISED" and I would be like "READ THE CONTRACT SIR" and I would win.

Don't marry lawyers.

Or me. I'm a terrible spouse.

Finally yesterday morning I heard him on the phone with a nice woman who sounded professional.

"Yes, I need to make an appointment," he said. "Ok, our next available date is in six weeks," she responded.

Then I realized what was happening. "Six weeks!? That won't work. This is for my husband. It's a dire emergency. His foot. It's disgusting."

Through the magic of words, this woman was somehow suddenly convinced to schedule an appointment for me within the next 24 hours.

I sort of protested when Skylar got off the phone but then he said something about how I was either going to lose my foot because of this disease or because of a home amputation done in the heat of the moment--either way, it was definitely coming off--if I didn't go to the doctor.

So I finally went today and let me tell you, it is not fun to tell a doctor you are there to see him about your extremely dry and flaky foot that has been that way for FIFTEEN YEARS. At one point he prescribed a course of treatment that seemed onerous and I asked him if I really had to do that and he said "not if you're ok just living with this" and I said "no, I'm not ok just living with this" and he shot back "your history suggests otherwise" and he said it like I was being judged and the girl in the corner taking notes smirked.

The point is, in 2-54 weeks (yes, that's legitimately the time frame I was given) I may finally be fungus free for the first time in my adult life.

It feels good to say that.

And now, please enjoy our first Strangerville of 2020.

This time in Strangerville, Eli agonizes over how to come out to the dentist, Meg steals from a movie theater, and a nostalgic walk through some complicated religious memories.


“Space Jesus” by Eli McCann (music by Benny Martin Piano)

~It Just Gets Stranger