The Vicodin Days

Kids, I’m just going to say it… Nancy Reagan was right, drugs are bad. You really should just say no, unless you've had surgery then you should say Yes. Yes. Yes. The month I spent on massive amounts of painkillers was truly something super special. By “special” I mean I shouldn’t have been allowed to leave my house or access electronic devices. You know how when you’re drunk and you do or say something really stupid and you think to yourself “self, this is gonna be really embarrassing tomorrow when you’re not so fucked up anymore”. Yeah, well that, only more embarrassing and filled with bat shit crazy and for weeks instead of just a night and then sobering up and wanting to move to Idaho (no offense Idaho) because that would be so much easier than inventing some sort of Men in Black shit to erase the memory of everyone you interacted with during those weeks. Yeah, those post surgery drugs are full of awesome sauce and they made me do and say some awesome shit.

Take for example the post surgery morning after conversation I had with my doctor while hooked up to the morphine pump. Let me set the scene for you. The occupants of my hospital room included the doctor, my mother and my eighty something year old roommate. Now this was a sweet little old lady, quiet, but sharp as a tack. I was hitting the button on the pain pump so frequently I locked myself out. The nurse asked me if I wanted Vicodin on top of my pain pump and of course I was already in full party mode so I was all helllllz yeah nursy nurse bring that shit on, let’s light this bitch up! In hindsight that was probably a bad move given what happened next.

My doctor explained how they had to remove the old easy bake baby oven and what left and what they didn’t complete with pictures… of everything. Grandma in the bed next to me was resting so peacefully I barely remembered she was there. She was an awesome roommate, or she was terrified of me. After my doctor was done she asked me if I had any questions. Well Hell yeah I had a question. The whole time she was talking I had kept flashing back to a picture from my high school health book of female anatomy and I was trying to figure out if they took a uterus out do they cap that shit off? I mean if I stick a flashlight in my mouth will I now be able to look for loose change on the ground in a dark alley while wearing a dress?  So, without even pausing to try to phrase the question in a delicate manner given the presence of my mother and grandma Moses I just blurted it out. I asked the doctor without a bit of shame or hesitation where does a dudes jizz go now? No really, where does it go?

Ummmm…. Yeah. This is the face my mom made, literally, while she screamed “OH. MY. GOD!”  

 My mom immediately asked if she could leave the room. I love my doctor because she told her no. I’m also pretty sure that grandma in bed B was either trying to figure out how to crawl out of the room army style or she had more excitement that morning than she has in 40 years. I’m a giver like that. But seriously, I had to know! I needed to know if that shit was going to ricochet off my kidneys and funk up my lungs. I’m totally prone to bronchitis and chest colds and I don’t want to be coughing that shit up someday.

I was completely rewired and remodeled and I needed to understand the new lay of the land. Now, I could choose to be mortified and never speak of this again but honestly it’s just so wrong on so many levels that it has to be shared. The look of shock and horror on my mom’s face was totally worth it, which by the way may prove I'm rife with wickedness. Never fear, the nut never falls far from the tree so if I know my mom she’s already plotting her revenge and will get me back when I least expect it. She’s kind of awesome like that. Oh, and for those wondering, yes, they sew it closed. No not "it" but way up in there in "it". OK, this is getting awkward. Moving on. 

Remember those pictures I mentioned? Yeah, one of them was of my ginormous tumor. Before surgery I had affectionately named it Fred. My dad had been upset that I gave it a man's name. "Why couldn't it be a woman's name?" he had asked. Do I even need to answer that? Only a man would cost me that amount of time, aggravation and money. Duh. Like a proud new mama though I HAD to show off the ever impressive two and a half pound Fred. So what did I do? I texted a picture of Fred to one of my friends at work who then showed someone else, and then someone else, and then before you know it Fred was the hit of my office. Yes, my office. Nobody looked at me the same way again upon my return to work. I'm sure they look at me and see Fred where my head is supposed to be. Texting while high never pays off. I repeat, if you ever have a Fred of your own NEVER text pictures like this while you’re high. I'm not high now, the below is just a bitch move on my part. Ha… suckers!!

 

I don't know if you know this but surgery in itself and large doses of pain medication cause a little issue in the bathroom area. That's right, you can't shit. No shit. No matter how much you desperately want to shit you can not shit. And this is where my arch nemesis Facebook comes in. Yes, you got it, I posted on Facebook all about how I just wished for the love of all that was good and holy that I could just please take a shit. And that is how Shit Watch 2010 began. Oh yeah, I'm not kidding. For a solid shitless week I posted a daily shit update. It was nice to know however that I had a team of people cheering me on during my crap quest, but seriously, that would have never been posted on my personal Facebook page so that my friends, co-workers and relatives could participate had I not been so fucked up beyond all belief on my friend Vicodin. Yes, I hang my head in shame for this one. Also, I love that none of my friends stopped me. What a bunch of assholes. Just kidding, I love you guys. Actually I don't, fuck all of you. Friends don't let friends post a daily shit report on Facebook. What's wrong with you people, sheesh. 

Then there was the day that I went to Target to get my Elvis/MJ/Lohan refill. This shit made me chatty as hell. I talked it up with little old ladies, chatted excessively with the checkout clerk. I had cabin fever, social interaction at this point was a must even if it was with strangers at Target. It was in the middle of the afternoon on a week day so Target was fairly empty... Which is why I was so beside myself when I came back out to the parking lot to find some dumb broad in an over sized high end luxury SUV, with vanity plates nonetheless that clearly indicated she was a high maintenance bitch, had parked right on top of me. Seriously, I could barely get in my car. My pills were in one hand and my bottle of water was, you guessed it, in the fucking car I couldn't get into. I had to suck my gut in so far my face turned violet and let me assure you that shit hurt. Vicodin numbed the pain, it didn't completely remove it. I was even further infuriated when I realized the chick had the cart return on the other side of her which meant she had a whole other half of an empty unusable parking space on the other side. There was no reason to park that close to me. Since I had nothing but time on my hands and prescription narcotics fueling my stand against injustice, oh and because I was feeling so chatty, I decided to leave her a friendly note. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have done that if I hadn’t been popping the fuck-you candy at the time but I don’t regret this transgression. Thanks to that big bag of drugs I had anything to write my note on so that kind of worked out. What? At least I signed it with hugs and kisses.

Dear Shit for Brains, Next time leave a fucking can opener so I can get in my car. xoxo, The bitch you parked on top of.

 I then zipped on over to Jiffy Lube to get an oil change. I was still a month and a thousand miles out from needing my next change but I figured might as well take care of it while I was off work and feeling so sociable. The poor man running Jiffy Lube had no idea what he was dealing with or what was about to hit him. Unfortunately for him he picked the wrong chick on the wrong day to fuck with. Mr. Jiffy Lube tried to tell me that my car was completely out of oil. Yes, completely out of oil. Evidently I must look much dumber than I am. You see I drive a Passat and this shit truly does use some Star Wars technology because it has a computer in it that tells me everything except when to floss my teeth and get my annual vajayjay exam. It tells me when my tire pressure is low, when I'm about to hit something, when I've lost traction before I can even feel it, it adjusts wiper speed by sensing how much rain is falling on the windshield. You get the idea. This car is full of awesome and it definitely tells me when I don't have any fucking oil. God bless the Germans.

This dumb ass expected me to believe I was out of oil which of course meant I needed to spend X amount of money on X amount of additional services or my car was going to explode. If I had a leak I would have seen it and I know for damn certain the car would have told me if I "had no oil". You may find this shocking but I'm not a rocket scientist and even then I'm fairly certain I would have known it was "completely out of oil" because it wouldn't have been drivable, my engine would have seized. I knew this guy was full of shit. Sadly for him though I was full of bitch drugs so I figured I'd debate the issue with him and call him out on this fuckery, I corrected him on his incorrect fear mongering statements and on info relating to technical specs. He did a great job reinforcing the stereotype of the shady mechanic trying to hose the clueless female. His miscalculation was my enjoyment. After boring with the debate I quickly ended the scam with "Look, just because I own a vagina doesn't mean I'm stupid." I think as soon as he heard "vagina" he knew he had lost. Really, how do you come back from a customer saying that to your face? All hail the power of the vagina. Also, fuck you Jiffy Lube, I will never again be a customer you condescending fucks. PS. This new VW commercial is pretty spot on and in my opinion the best Superbowl ad... Period.

During this time I also made a trip back home to Texas for the holidays. I'm fairly certain if I wasn't high off my ass I would not have made out with a plate of Chicken Fried Bacon. Yes, you heard me right.... CHICKEN. FRIED. BACON. I couldn't even make this shit up. Speaking of shit had I had access to this chicken fried bacon nonsense when my bowels were on shit strike it would have been all over with. Timing really is everything. I'm going to blame this diet transgression completely on being fucked up. Don't get me wrong, it was good in an I-hate-myself-a-little-more-now sort of way but who sits around thinking up this stuff? Hey, you know what's better than pig fat fried in more pig fat? Let's dip that shit in some batter, deep fry it and then serve it with a side of heavy white gravy. Hellz yeah! Ok so fine, this place is in the tiny little Texas town of Snook and was actually on The Travel Channel for just this thing but still man it's like a plate of fried fat dipped in more fat then dipped in gravy. I'm still trying to wrap my brain around it. Mind. Blown. Thank you Sodolak's.

Now this last thing I'm about to say I want to preface with I do not wish physical harm or pain on my ex-husband. He is my daughters father and any pain he experiences ripples down to her. The universe has a sense of humor however. While I was going through my recovery and in pain and miserable and full of why does all this shitty shit happen to me a funny thing happened.. I started getting all of these super friendly and excessively chatty emails from my ex. It was just odd. I thought wow, he must have a soul, my getting sick made him decide to be nice. Wrong. Turns out he was hit on the head, literally. He was in a hit and run and had a concussion. So, thank you universe for giving me a month of the best prescription narcotics insurance could buy and for hitting my ex husband over the head. You're an awesome universe for evening that shit out.