What did I do all weekend?
Was it that good or that boring? Sadly, it's been a long time since I had a weekend whose memories were blocked by substance abuse rather than my brain attempting to shield itself from death by boredom. Not that I miss puking, but part of me thinks that I should puke from alcohol (or something else) at least once a year to stave off a complete descent into the pits of responsible living.
Hank is flirting with those very pits. Last year she threw out her back pretty well and was mostly horizontal for the better part of a week. Her doctor prescribed hardcore anti-inflammatories, muscle relaxants, and a big honkin' bottle of vicodin.
Vicodin is a weird drug. It's supposed to be a pain killer, but it doesn't really kill pain. It just makes you not really give a crap. You lay there, all glowy, and think, "Hey, the pain is still there. Who cares! Hi, pain!" Then you contemplate crafting together a sock puppet opera with pain as a minor character, but you never get off your ass to actually compose the score. I thoroughly enjoyed my time on vicodin 10 years ago when I broke my collarbone, but it was The Evil Liz who mastered the art of vicodin by creating the Liz Cocktail, wisely adding the missing ingredient: booze.
(Recipe:
1 pill Vicodin
1 glass wine
Enjoy!)
Anyway, so Hank had the honkin' bottle of Vicodin AND NEVER TOOK A SINGLE PILL. It's like I married a monk, a sexy monk who makes a mean margarita, but a monk nevertheless. That bottle still sits somewhere in our house, a monument to a life poorly lived.
Daisy had her big chance to live it up earlier this month. Hank took her in for a dental appointment and the dentist had recommended that she get some sort of sealant on her teeth. However, the application of the sealant involved a piece of equipment which engaged Daisy's very sensitive gag reflex. After a few attempts, the dentist recommended that we try a little "happy gas" to lubricate the process.
So, they busted out the nitrous and let Daisy breathe it in. After a short period of time, Daisy began to cry, screaming "It feels weird and tingly!".
That ended that.
Happy gas made her cry. Freaky. I may demand a paternity test on that child*.
* Just kidding, Daisy! I love you! Don't read blogs!
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3 comments:
Is it trite yet to say "lol"? I was laughing when I finished the P.S. in your blog. Kids reading blogs is a mixed bag. On the one hand you don't want them knowing all the seamy, innappropriate, lame parts of your life. On the other hand, they get to know you better and maybe, just maybe, will be inspired to write (something - anything! please!) too.
So, wait, what did you do? :p
Sue, my preference is that Daisy reads my blog on my deathbed. However, odds are that she'll find it sometime before then. Once she becomes aware of it, I'll quickly write a few pages of super boring posts, and hopefully she'll never read it again. Fingers are crossed.
Newnorth, what the hell did I do? Damn. Well, I went refrigerator shopping. That was balls to the walls excitement. Good enough?
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