On Good Morning America tomorrow, Diane Sawyer will be interviewing celebrities like Hilary Duff, Will Smith, and Tom Cruise on dance moves you can do in front of your kids that won't embarass both of you.

I'm curious as to what Tom will say. I'm particularly curious if the move where you jump up and down on the couch is a "do" or a "do not do".

Even better in terms of overall humor value, however, is this page, specifically the unanswered question of how many people claimed fluency in "Nigerian".

Anyway. Today's rant is about medicine. You my have heard my rants about City Slickers' speech on getting old when you go in to the hospital to have a "procedure", but Dave Barry made a similar comment about knowing that you were getting old when you started discussing health problems with friends. So, since I'm old, let's let this start. I also know that none of this is really new, but indulge me.

My experience with doctors when I was younger was pretty simple - you went in for a yearly checkup, and if you were sick, you went to the doctor, got a prescription, drank lots of Sprite and plain noodles, and were better. I liked this system, notably because my parents paid for it (including the Sprite!).

As I've gotten older, this process has gradually changed. Rather than "diseases" in the sense of something that makes you stay home and watch The Price is Right for a predetermined period of time, we now have "diseases" where the body's defense system, is basically fighting the War on Drugs (see above) - progress is measured in remarkably small increments, with the actual final victory of the War on Drugs in approximately 2040, a point at which I will either a) be dead or b) wish I was when I'm still alone and blogging.

So, anyway, I have a few of these items. They're not going to kill me (unless I try really hard), but they are going to, in the immortal (edited) words of The Simpsons, require me to see my pharmacist once a month for many years. I still have whatever annoying problems in question, and medical science in the form of various doctors have told me that I'm stuck with it.

So, anyway, Rite-Aid, in a move designed to draw my ire, tried to enroll me in some "living with your disease" (which annoys me even further since "disease" strikes me as something that eventually gets fixed, whereas "condition"s (see City Slickers note above on medical terminology) don't) mail spam list, without my permission. Even worse, they required me to deal with the same evil voice that does Verizon's answering machine to get out of it - it was the same "if you like your first album/wine/wheel of cheese, simply do nothing and another will be sent to your home every month". VERY. NOT. COOL.

That's the evil one. Now here's the strange one. Remember my love for the Tuscana? Part of the reason I'm so enamored of them is that I have to buy a pair every six months. This is because my feet sweat. A lot. It's annoying since it destroys my shoes, and whenever it's humid and I have to walk a lot, I feel like I'm walking in a swamp.

Ha! Take that, TMI!

So I go to the doctor and complain, and, as always, get a solution. The solution, however, is one of those "potentially worse than the cure itself" thingees.

Well, sort of.

The way it works is, you put it on your feet at night before sleeping.

Normal so far.

But, for it to work, you have to ensure that it's not touching anything, particularly since it stains. So you need to wear socks to sleep.

Ok, that's fine.

I started this blog for a variety of reasons. One of them is most assuredly the need to occasionally discuss the parts of this world that, no matter how much you analyze them, make no sense whatsoever. Sort of the "when you can't understand the world, laugh at it" approach, so that I can pull a Dylan Thomas and rage against that which does not make sense without getting committed.

This is one of those times.

To get it to work, before you put on the sock and after you put on the medicine, and I swear I'm not making this up, you have to wrap your feet in saran wrap.