What - were you expecting a post about poop? I can't imagine why you would think that I would ever bring up such a subject. Southern ladies do not discuss poop.
No, I am going to quit my shenanigans for a moment, because though I do like finding the humor in most situations (which unfortunately has some negative consequences at times - like the time I was sitting on the front row at my grandfather's funeral and suddenly began to notice the odd inflection that the pastor put at the end of every phrase, and then began to wonder if anyone else was noticing it, and made the colossal mistake of shifting my eyes to the right the next time he did it, catching the mischievous eye of my son, at which point we both were overcome with a totally uncontrollable urge to fall screaming with laughter into the aisle, and I had to resort to silently reciting the Lord's Prayer over and over again frantically, while I felt my son's shoulder against mine twitching and shaking, and my cousin thought we were crying so she passed a box of tissues down to us, with disasterous results...but I digress...)
...No, anyway, some things aren't all that funny. Sometimes the truth is painful. And since this blog is technically supposed to actually be HELPFUL at times, unfortunately this means that at times I am going to be honest about this experience. So here goes:
Last night some girlfriends came over, and brought a couple of bottles of wine. I know, I know, you're not supposed to mix Vicodin with alcohol, yada yada yada, so I didn't take any Vicodin after about noon yesterday because I sort of figured they wouldn't show up empty handed. We just don't do that where I come from, and I know these girls were raised right.
Well, a good time was had by all, and the end result was several empty bottles of wine and some hilarious episodes involving the knee scooter and my dogs.
Come to think of it, these might not have been quite so funny if it wasn't for the wine, but who cares, right? It was fun, and I needed to improve my social skills after nearly a week of Gollumness.
After they left, I was sitting there like a bump on a log and I got to thinking, "Damn, my leg hurts." And then I remembered reading something on the prescription information sheet (yes, YES, I read those, OK?) about three or more alcoholic beverages and liver damage and I realized that I had just made a pretty poor trade.
I had no choice but to dutifully arrange my 47 pillows, turn on HGTV (healthy, tanned people walking around on two legs in lovely homes - apparently oblivious to the FACT that they could injure their Achilles tendons AT ANY MOMENT - harhahahrhahrhahHARHARHAHRHharhahrhahrhar!) and settle down for the evening sans Vicodin. "It will be OK, " I told myself. "It's been nearly a week - surely this can't turn into more than a dull ache." Off I went into House Hunters International Sleepyland.
I have no idea what time this next event happened. All I know is that I was sound asleep one minute, and several hours later sitting straight up grasping the cast in both hands, hair sticking straight up on my head, howling, "Augh! Ohh! Yagh! Yipes! Shit! Hell! Damn!..." You get the drift. And my husband was standing over me wide eyed going, "What! What is it? What's wrong?"
Well, you know what - I'm sorry, but I think it's pretty obvious WHAT IS WRONG. MY LEG HURTS. Unfortunately, it's also pretty obvious to me that there's not a damn thing that can be done about it.
Call me paranoid, but I figure that about now the last thing I need is liver trouble to cap off the rest of this fiasco. I'm a pretty strong gal - I think I can tolerate some short term pain to keep Ye Olde Liver intact. So I took my punishment in a stoic manner (if you want to call whining, rubbing my cast, and giving my husband minute by minute updates on the level of pain on a scale of 1-10 "stoic").
But I just want to pass this pearl of wisdom along to anyone who finds themselves in my position - who may be wondering if they should forego the pain meds for a nice "normal" evening including a couple of glasses of wine.
The answer is simple.
No.
No, I am going to quit my shenanigans for a moment, because though I do like finding the humor in most situations (which unfortunately has some negative consequences at times - like the time I was sitting on the front row at my grandfather's funeral and suddenly began to notice the odd inflection that the pastor put at the end of every phrase, and then began to wonder if anyone else was noticing it, and made the colossal mistake of shifting my eyes to the right the next time he did it, catching the mischievous eye of my son, at which point we both were overcome with a totally uncontrollable urge to fall screaming with laughter into the aisle, and I had to resort to silently reciting the Lord's Prayer over and over again frantically, while I felt my son's shoulder against mine twitching and shaking, and my cousin thought we were crying so she passed a box of tissues down to us, with disasterous results...but I digress...)
...No, anyway, some things aren't all that funny. Sometimes the truth is painful. And since this blog is technically supposed to actually be HELPFUL at times, unfortunately this means that at times I am going to be honest about this experience. So here goes:
Last night some girlfriends came over, and brought a couple of bottles of wine. I know, I know, you're not supposed to mix Vicodin with alcohol, yada yada yada, so I didn't take any Vicodin after about noon yesterday because I sort of figured they wouldn't show up empty handed. We just don't do that where I come from, and I know these girls were raised right.
Well, a good time was had by all, and the end result was several empty bottles of wine and some hilarious episodes involving the knee scooter and my dogs.
 |
| They need to make themselves useful some sort of way. |
Come to think of it, these might not have been quite so funny if it wasn't for the wine, but who cares, right? It was fun, and I needed to improve my social skills after nearly a week of Gollumness.
After they left, I was sitting there like a bump on a log and I got to thinking, "Damn, my leg hurts." And then I remembered reading something on the prescription information sheet (yes, YES, I read those, OK?) about three or more alcoholic beverages and liver damage and I realized that I had just made a pretty poor trade.
I had no choice but to dutifully arrange my 47 pillows, turn on HGTV (healthy, tanned people walking around on two legs in lovely homes - apparently oblivious to the FACT that they could injure their Achilles tendons AT ANY MOMENT - harhahahrhahrhahHARHARHAHRHharhahrhahrhar!) and settle down for the evening sans Vicodin. "It will be OK, " I told myself. "It's been nearly a week - surely this can't turn into more than a dull ache." Off I went into House Hunters International Sleepyland.
I have no idea what time this next event happened. All I know is that I was sound asleep one minute, and several hours later sitting straight up grasping the cast in both hands, hair sticking straight up on my head, howling, "Augh! Ohh! Yagh! Yipes! Shit! Hell! Damn!..." You get the drift. And my husband was standing over me wide eyed going, "What! What is it? What's wrong?"
Well, you know what - I'm sorry, but I think it's pretty obvious WHAT IS WRONG. MY LEG HURTS. Unfortunately, it's also pretty obvious to me that there's not a damn thing that can be done about it.
Call me paranoid, but I figure that about now the last thing I need is liver trouble to cap off the rest of this fiasco. I'm a pretty strong gal - I think I can tolerate some short term pain to keep Ye Olde Liver intact. So I took my punishment in a stoic manner (if you want to call whining, rubbing my cast, and giving my husband minute by minute updates on the level of pain on a scale of 1-10 "stoic").
But I just want to pass this pearl of wisdom along to anyone who finds themselves in my position - who may be wondering if they should forego the pain meds for a nice "normal" evening including a couple of glasses of wine.
The answer is simple.
No.
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