Do you hear wedding bells, people?
Well, not my own wedding bells, but my niece's. T-Doo is getting married this weekend. And guess what? I get the honor of walking her down the aisle! Is that awesome or what? I asked if I could wear a tux, but she said she had some dresses at the bridal shop for me to choose from. Wish me luck there, people. I doubt it'll be a prom gown-type monstrosity, but I am a little nervous due to the comment she made about "camo colors." Still, whatever the girl wants me in, that's what I'll be donning. Pictures to come!
T-Doo and her beau live outside Houston. Since that's a few hours away from me, I'm taking a little vacation for myself too in one of my favorite Texas spots, Lake Conroe, where I'll visit an old friend and hang out under the pines. That means I'll be away for a few days, y'all. If I get a chance, I'll post, but if you don't hear from me, don't worry. I am probably just enjoying the hell out of my life for a change. I plan to dance the night away, or at least as long as my feet will last.
Hey, don't forget! You can Kindle your Fragrant Liar. (See the little image in the right-hand column? Click it! >>>>>>
Download me, baby! And you too will be able to read me like a book! Hey, I don't share myself with just anybody. Ask everyone!
July 28, 2009
Do you hear wedding bells, people?
July 26, 2009
Oh yeah! I am diggin' my new strap-on, people. I have worn it everywhere cuz nobody can see it under my clothes, and as a result, my girls get a nice perky lift.
Is that the funniest word in the history of the English language, or what? Strap-on. Can YOU say it without chuckling? Go ahead, say it out loud right now. Loud and proud, people! I dare ya: Strap-on!
My daughter said it a couple weeks ago, in the course of telling me some newsy story, and as soon as she said, "strap-on" I started cracking up. She stopped talking and said, "What. I just have to say that word and you start laughing."
I don't know why she was giving me that disgusted look. (All of my daughters were born with the capacity to flash this look at anyone, anytime, anywhere. I just seem to be the most frequent recipient.) So I said, "Hell yeah! Have you seen those pornos where people are using strap-ons? They're funny." (Yes, I asked my daughter this question. She's an adult, people.) I mean, I'm sure strap-ons have their therapeutic uses, mm-hmm. Know what I'm saying? But I just get a picture in my mind that always drives me into the gutter, which is the place I do most of my ROFLMAO.
Of course, my new strap-ons don't have quite the same utility. Here they are:
I love these strap-ons (AAAHHH-hahaha!), cuz I hate when my bra straps show, and in summer you just NEED these little suckers to wear under tank tops and shirts with not quite enough fabric in the back. And look, they have that flirty heart-shaped design, which I never noticed until I looked at this picture. Heh, I'm flirty without even trying -- just wearing my strap-on!
July 24, 2009
July 23, 2009
If there's one thing I LOVE, it's entertaining. I'm so glad you all are coming over tonight. I'll feel much less lonely while so many of my bloggy buddies are getting their grooves on at Blogher. It's just a shame that no one took pity and paid my way for me. I mean, what is this world coming to when people have to pay their own way? Ga-ah!
Oh wait! I am totally wrong -- and I'm not afraid to admit it. Why, I was wrong just last June. Anyway, it turns out that most of my bloggy buddies are NOT going to Blogher. Woo-hoo! BlogherNots unite!
So help yourself to my lovely cheese tray and some carmel corn and that oh-so-luscious, ice cold Corona, which is strategically placed on my tropical island table. Notice the Nude Beach sign in the background. Gettin' your island getaway fantasy on, are ya? I know I am. Channeling Holly has to offer up some rewards, and I'm thinkin' that my future with a few beachcomber days (weeks?) will be my fitting reward.
And speaking of "fitting" -- see, everything comes back to my current obsession, which is . . . ME! Getting back in shape for a bikini vacation is Issue Numero Uno around here, mostly because I've been fantasizing about cabana boys again. I know I said that the Cougar-Be-Gone worked like a charm, but then I saw the Nude Beach sign and heard Babs singing "Memories" and then that Jacob the Wolf showed up again in that New Moon trailer and my willpower went all to hell.
Oh silly me. Let's get this party ramped up! What are you waiting for? Dig in. I'll get the chips and dips for those of you with a hankering for salt. Don't mind me, I'm just shining my Texan hospitality for y'all. Does it sound genuine? I know! Not too many people can pull off that wholesome twang. :) Well, I HAVE been practicing.
UPDATE: I ran out to the store, and looky what I found!
Our vino lovers were whining about not having any wine at this shindig, so here you go, you squeaky wheels! I even threw in some fruit, olives, and yummy Eye-talian bread.
Thanks for pitching in on everything guys. Throwing a shindig this size can set a girl back. Put all your stuff on the dining room table, will ya? We'll just do buffet. Oh, and surprise! I have True Blood on DVD! Yes! The whole first season! Woo-hoo, and you're welcome.
Uh-oh, I've been celebrating a little too hard, if you must know. Truth is, I already twirled my bra around my head and sling-shot it around my ceiling fan. And then I got all dizzy from watching that sucker spin me right 'round, baby, right 'round, and ended up on the floor. Duh, I'm totally ditzed out right now. :) Good thing I caught my wine glass between my toes, or else there'd be a big burgundy wine stain on that berber I just fixed last weekend. I'm not sure what happened to my flathead, but my daughter doesn't like me playing with her tools.
It's all right. You can still come in. I'll sober up real quick. Woopsie! ROFLMAO! How can one person trip over her own feet so many times? Gah!
Oh one more thing. Check out my right side bar where you can now download Fragrant Liar on your Kindle. For reals. I'm so going to have to buy one now.
July 21, 2009
Okay, people, raise your hand if you're not going to the Blogher Conference. Go ahead, higher. I'm counting. One, two . . . five . . . ten. A whole ten of us are not going to Chicago for the annual Blogher soiree.
I don't know about you, but I'm feeling rather like that time all my stoner friends went down to Baja without me because Mom and Dad were being all paranoid about the fact that there were no responsible adults going. Ga-ah! They just loved making my life hell on earth. If it wasn't for them, I'd have lost my virginity much sooner. Probably.
So, I'm thinking that those of us who have to stay home and miss out on all the partying in the Windy City get together for our own blogger's conference. We'll call it BlogherNot, an unstoppable cyber force.
Oh, wait! Holly's on TV. Holy shit, she just threw off all her clothes, and now she's jumping on some guy. Ohh, baby, it's a detective. OMG, they're . . . Wonder where her Get-Yer-Shit-Together Angel Earl is? Is he witnessing this steamfest? Heh, heh. My girl has no shame. I love her.
Whaddya say? Meet here Thursday night? We'll form our own panels. So Fragrant Liar, why do you blog? Because I must have constant attention, of course.
BYOB and some Fiddle Faddle, 'kay?
July 19, 2009
I did some catsitting this weekend. Snowball is an elderly tabby with a little meezer in her and enough attitude out her furry wazoo to scare off potential home invaders with one well-aimed spit-and-hiss. She's actually a darling little thing, but don't expect to be invited over for catnip. The girl has the social graces of Montecore before he chomped down on Roy Horn in Vegas. I'm trusting you not to tell her that, because she's totally temperamental and that's when the claws come out, you know.
To the left here is a bullshit re-enactment photo of Snowball. It adds about ten pounds on her, but since she's not going to see this, she can't be embarrassed.
So Snowball's spacious home is gorgeous. Front and back yards are lush with plants, trees, golf grass, and a relaxing water feature. Because her house backs up to the greenbelt, her masters are able to feed the deer and bunnies and cardinals and various other birds. Every morning and evening, the back yard transforms into a zoological garden, complete with a mister.
No, not a man mister -- I haven't found one of those I wanna hang out with on the weekend yet (Mr. Nice Guy turned into the Rushing Man and this girl ain't in no rush) -- but a fan mister. They also have what's called a Gazelle on the back porch -- no not a 4-legged deer-corn eater, but an elliptical type exerciser. Do I have to explain everything to you people? I had the mister strafing me full blast as I did some kind of cross country glidey thing on the Gazelle, shussing my way to fitness in 100+ degree temps. Snowball watched me through the window from her cool perch inside the house, snickering superciliously at my stupid human tricks (I might have tripped up on the glidey foot pedals and fallen on my ass).
Hey, Snowy, I saw that poochy muffin top you're lugging around, all swishy when you saunter across the room with your nose in the air! Cats think they're so above it all, you know? I bet she'd freak if I told you all that she dragged her butt across the floor and left me a couple of nuggets. Hey, Snowy, missed the catbox, darling.
Oh, look, there I am in Snowball's back yard. I kind of look like Cinderella, don't I? Just for the sake of full disclosure, I should mention that I'm wearing gym shorts and a new jog bra under that thing. Gazelling is just too hard in that prom get-up without being thoroughly outfitted underneath. Not insignificantly, my "girls" were so compressed in that jog bra, they practically went to sleep. You can kind of tell in this photo, can't you?
Only problem with my weekend was that my phone died and I didn't have internet. I didn't even know Walter Cronkite died until a couple hours ago! ("And that's the way it was . . ." my fave thing he said.) What did people do before technology? Mostly me and Snowball hung out around the diningroom table, where I watched the menagerie outside and made myself write a novel. I'm telling you, if it wasn't for Snowball, I'd still be banging my head in her Fancy Feast (situated strategically on the dining room table beside my laptop) and begging to be put out of my compositional misery. Snowball, except for that nasty supercilious snickering habit of hers, was the perfect mews.
July 16, 2009
In a rare moment of calm. And then . . .
July 15, 2009
In talking to one of my guy friends about dancing, he said he liked that the act of dancing was an erotic precursor to sex. Foreplay.
Natch, I wanted to shout those words out loud and proud, but I was a good girl. Instead, I said, "That is completely wrong."
I have heard that gobbledy-gook from other guys over the years, and I just think, "You've seen too many lap dances." Sadly, I know many guys who won't "let" their women dance with other men because they think it's too suggestive or sexual and therefore like cheating. We women must carry this dirty little secret around on the down low apparently. Cuz we're sneaky like that?
Geez. Now, let me clarify, I'm not talking about a very close, slow dance between lovers (or potentials). We all know what can happen when you're up against Mr./Ms. Hottie. Intimate contact begets more intimate contact. No this is about all that other dancing . . .
. . . all that other dancing that the puritanical religious don't like. To them, dancing is sinful. It's like the pot to heroin argument, the certainty that there's a predictable and insidious progression from the benign stuff to hard core addiction; and from there, you can only burn in Hell. If that's true, I'll go down smilin'. You saw Footloose, right? Kevin Bacon proved in the movie this clear and single point:
It's a celebration of movement and therefore a celebration of being alive.
Plus, not even a suggestive hip grind and come-hither look will get you any action if you dance like Big Bird. But who cares? There's something so uplifting about letting loose to the sound of a catchy beat and not worrying about what you look like. It's a kind of full-body, senses-and-soul freedom that you can't experience any other way. Women understand this. That's why they can dance together without some subversive intention to have sex with each other. Wipe that pity party off your face, guys.
Not saying that a certain style of dancing can't be performed in a sexual and enticing way. Of course it can. But when I'm out on the dance floor kicking it up or gyrating, there's no imaginary pole out there with me. If there was, I'd expect to roll into my house at night with a waistband stuffed full of dollar bills. No, I'm out there dancing because it is BIG fun and a workout that does wonders for a body. It's rejuvenating and healthy and I just want to keep doing it all night long.
Good lord, I AM going to hell, cuz I am addicted to dancing. Damn you SYTYCD!!
July 13, 2009
Has anybody seen Holly Hunter lately? I don't mind saying, Holly is my idol. She is 51 with the body of a svelte and buff 25-year-old. And she's a shorty like me.
I heart Holly. Ineffably. Does it show?
In my life, there was the Great Crappola of 2008. In other words, divorce, empty nest, relocation, job changes (while working for a classic bully), and the big kahuna: my little sister died. So . . . I took the first half of '09 to recuperate and mull over a new direction. Things going south can lead you even souther, if you're not careful. How far can one go south, I wonder? Past Antarctica, I'm guessing. But if I have one asset worth bragging about, it's resilience. You know, pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again. Yeah, that I have perfected.
So I'm getting back into working out. The gym experience is becoming familiar again, stamina is picking up, and I'm taking on more and more weights. Boy is my butt sore. But I love it. Before long, I'll be back on the courts smashing racquetballs and making kill shots. Anybody wanna play?
Anyway, I have rediscovered Holly because of her cool show, Saving Grace. Look at her arms, people! Have you seen this woman's thighs? Her stomach is flatter than a desktop. And I'll say it right here: She makes me wanna be a better woman.
Oh yes, I am channeling you, Holly Beeotch. And in the spirit of magical thinking, by spring of 2010, I am going to have a Holly body. Oh yeah.
So, you all are going to hold me to this, right? RIGHT??
July 11, 2009
It's time for an announcement, people. I met a really nice guy tonight. No, really. Nice. As in handsome, fit and athletic, driven (and cycled), intelligent and articulate, creative and talented, firm buns and thighs, and already retired. Whoa! Stop the train and back up, people. Firm buns and thighs? I got one word for ya (with a lotta syllables): Ni-i-i-i-i-i-ice!
I know! How did THAT happen? Cuz I don't mind telling you, I am a bad-boy electromagnet. That's like millions of times more powerful than a fridge magnet. 'kay? So how this really nice guy with the firm buns and thighs made such an impact is a damn miracle. Of course, I did personally pick him out of a lineup without even previewing his buns and thighs, so I'm due a little credit here. No, not THAT lineup. Online dating. Although I am quite certain many of those guys online have been in that other kind of lineup. I swear one of 'em is a Featured Fugitive on the FBI's Most Wanted List, right next to Bin Laden. He wasn't wearing a turban, but he had a moustache. A big one, like you could hide box cutters in there.
So I met Mr. Nice Guy with the firm buns and thighs at Little Woodrow's for drinks after I got off work. Two hours went by like thirty! Minutes, that is. He's not short on conversation. I fooled him by being totally quiet and demure. I'm pretty sure he bought it. Ladies, I even got a GIFT! Swe-e-e-e-eet! He gave me a CD of some of his recordings. Did I mention he has a recording studio? And he's a musician?
Honestly, I was afraid of another musician. They're terminally poverty-stricken titty babies. But how can you not love a classically trained violinist – with an AMP!?! I'll bet he can turn that volume all the way up to eleven. And there's no worrying about this musician with the firm buns and thighs crying over his money woes cuz he doesn't need a J.O.B. Whew! That's just one less thing for me to bitch about, you know? And finally, somebody cool in my age range with a hot body. People, after chugging a quart of Cougar Be-Gone, I'm born again. And probably well lubed.
Did I mention he has firm buns and thighs? He only cycles 20+ miles a day. What Mr. Nice Guy doesn't have? A beer belly. Se-e-e-exy!
But, I don't know. We have yet to discuss the deal breaker. I mean, if the guy can't dance, he's totally yesterday's news. Plus, Mr. Nice Guy with the firm buns and thighs is going to have to show me some deal makers, so I can give him a sexier name. Like Mr. Breakfast in Bed, or Mr. Double Two-Step Me into a Sexual Frenzy, or the ultimate Mr. I Heart SYTYCD* too! Hhhhawtt!
So what do you think? Shall I tell him my real name? I mean, just in case he's a keeper.
* So You Think You Can Dance? = My favorite guilty pleasure on the tube. Don't judge, people.
July 8, 2009
When I'm without my cell phone, I am without one leg. I feel like I have to email everyone, "Hey, I don't have my phone. If you miss me or need to tell me something -- anything -- here's how." And so it goes with the alternative: text messages via email. Following is this afternoon's exchanges between me, my two daughters, Scoots and TG, and TG's husband George. I'm always amused at how fast things can disintegrate. Cuz we're family.
Me: If you guys need me, you’ll have to call me at the office. I keep forgetting the damn phone.
TG: We should get you a fanny pack.
Scoots: Doodle would think you are the coolest! (Eleven-y.o. Doodle is enamored with fanny packs and doesn't care about the cool factor or lack thereof. The boy just wants what he wants.)
TG: While we are at it, we may as well get you one of those medical alert watches too... In case you fall and can't get up (again).
Scoots: Wait! I need one of those too.
George: Yeah, but for a different reason . . .
Scoots (this pic looks exactly like her, but it's not): HAHAHAHA!!!
TG: Yes, and it lights up too. So she can see it in the dark. :)
Scoots: She will need digital!
TG: The watches are way fancier than the old medical necklaces... They were too clunky. She would never wear the necklace.
Scoots: I guess Mom does not want to play along with our antics.
Me: All right already. So, I take it I'm getting a medical alert bracelet for my birthday? BTW, I have a “drinks date” on Friday after work.
Scoots: YEAH!!! Hot or not?
Me: He’s older than me. How hot can he be?
TG: Definitely a fanny pack. PS, Mom, you don't "drink"....
Scoots: I have seen some hot old men.
George: I am amazed how entertained you all can keep your selves. lol
Scoots: We are simple girls!
George: I think I will push this button now . . .
TG: Dang... I missed out on a lot. I don't even know where to start. First, MOM, that guy is cute, and seems very nice. If you're not interested don't go out with him! Scoots, thought you were SOOOOOOO busy... :) George, I know what you mean. Cleaning, and came back to 15 emails... Yay, I feel important again!!!
Me: I do want to go. You know what? That guy IS pretty hot. He’s in AWESOME shape. TG, did I show you his pics?
Scoots: I want to see!
George: I have one of him...
Me: Those sharpeis are symbolic of what we CAN’T see. Ew.
Me (along with pics of my upcoming Friday "date"): Cute, huh?
Scoots: And the bald head isn’t bad. That will be George soon. :)
Crickets chirping . . .
Me: So, I'm getting the fanny pack then?
July 6, 2009
It is the end of a long Fourth of July weekend where I have reclined feet-up in darvocet decadence for days. Miss America is talking to her mom at the other end of the sofa. The kid is so adorable that when she opens her mouth, I must stir from my stupor and pay attention. It's as if her mere presence in the same room with me activates my seratonin valves and I get a nice little surge of happiness. Such is the power of a cherubic five-year-old.
Miss America leans over the couch arm toward her mother, her energy level at 9:00 pm still barely containable: "I had a great time, Mom."
TG pets Miss America’s hair and smiles at her daughter adoringly: "You got all your promises today, didn’t you?"
Miss America lavishes praise in her very small voice: "Yup, my dad promised me Chuck E. Cheese and he did it, and you promised to paint my fingernails and you did it!"
Miss America then glances over at me and smiles. "And Nana promised nothing. And she did it!"
Aaawww. Wait. What?
Y'all check out my good friend Nanny Goats in Panties for an important Buyer Beware Warning. Universal Subscription Agency: nothing but door-to-door SCAM artists.
July 5, 2009
The Binky Boys have been ruling our roost. I'm talking two almost-3-year-old cousins who have joined forces for four weeks of mischief, mayhem, and mooning. As toity trainees, those itty-bitty buns tearing through the house are a sight to behold -- and with such wreckless, gleeful abandon, makes you long for the days when you had no sense of propriety. Only a pure and unobstructed awareness of being. Of eating, sleeping, and pooping. Traversing the world with a binky in your mouth, a blankie over your shoulder, and a new toy in your hand -- one you have no intention of sharing. Touching and tasting and trying out things -- cuz everything is intriguing and new -- like Nana's shoes. No judgments here. Baby boys are allowed to try on heels in Nana's house, wear pink toenail polish and perfume. And bracelets.
And now one of the Binky Boys has to go home. NAS New Orleans. His daddy's due back from a short mission in Japan and Guam via Anchorage. Yeah, a Navy guy. New family man. Macho. Don't tell him about the pink polish, okay?
Beyond the joy of hanging with my grandson, I've been able to spend the last four weeks with my daughter (#3 of 4 in the lineup), and it hasn't been nearly long enough. Feel like I'm just getting to know her all over again, because she's no longer the precocious little chatterbox, the sullen teenager, the rebellious 21-year-old Navy recruit. She's a beautiful woman, a doting mom, a loving wife, and a grownup I'm proud of. I love her, of course, but I also really, really like her.
Come back soon, Binky Boy, and bring my precious girl, cuz I miss you guys already.
July 3, 2009
'kay, it's official. I suck. I have been awarded bloggy goodies, and I have been stoned. It's the Darvs. They've made it so I'm dragging ass in the gushing thanks department. And I do mean BIG thanks. I have fabulous blogging buddies, and I don't want them to think I've forgotten them. Even though I kinda did. But not deliberately. It's the Darvs.
First, from one of my favorite blogs, Jane at Gaston Studio, the Noblesse Oblige award, which means my blog exempifies . . . well, nobility! Shyah! Naturally. And probably depth, inspiration, and a little thing called courage. Am I right, people?
Sorry, there was a mouse on my desk.
Ahem, so I know that all of cyberspace will agree with me when I say that my most provocative and nuanced philosophies on life have been spurting nonstop out of a dark and remote crater from deep within me. Like little geysers of wisdom, they just spew out of the national park that is my brain, and there's a lot of oooohing and aaaahing that goes on from the rubberneckers. Proof that you can always trust what I have to say. Right, Jane?
You're welcome. And since everybody's out celebrating the birth of America, I'll just leave it at that. Here's what donning the Noblesse Oblige looks like in all its purple, molecular, and worldly glory. Cool, ain't it? Thanks, Jane!
There are probably other rules that go with this award, but I really must fly for my next Darvocet, so critical thinking activities will have to wait.
Now I have also been honored by one of my new fave bloggers, Phat Mama of Big Ass and Lots of Sass. That girlie has attitude in spades, or cards or something. But she's got a royal flush of sassification! Ms. Mama has bequeathed me with the crown of ALLL Things Awesome -- whoopsie, that's Awe-Summm!!! Cuz it all adds up! To . . . summm-thing. Thanks, Phat Mama!
I am now to list a mere seven things that qualify me for this prestigious honor (besides my innate nobility and stuff). In no particular order, here they are:
1) I gave birth four times. Hey, it was a personal record.
2) I have been married and divorced three times. No, it's not what anybody ever plans or hopes for, but I survived, and that's awesome. Plus, it was another personal record.
There, I'm done. Sorry, two was all I had in me. If I have omitted thanks to anybody else who deserves it, and I really mean this, email me at firstname.lastname@example.org and straighten my butt out.
Update on Papasan: Dad has come home and the clot in his arm seems to have broken up. The thinners are working on his blood and he wishes they would work on his belly. Really, thanks for all your kind words for my pop.
As for moi, my neck is a little swollen and numb at the rhizotomy sites, but I'm thinking it's all going the way it's supposed to. If I failed to mention it, Darvs rock. And worthy of note: today is the one-year anniversary of my car accident. Thanks, dude, for running that red light.
Happy fireworks day, y'all!
Thanks to all our soldiers and diplomats and military families who carry on the tradition of keeping America a free country. Stay safe and rock the weekend!
July 1, 2009
Medial Branch Rhizotomy day, thanks to the car accident that keeps on giving. On arrival at surgical facility, I am escorted to the inner sanctum and allowed to disrobe behind Curtain #1. This time, I confess, I have supplanted my beloved thongs for big-girl panties, just for this event. White cotton with a swirly pattern -- girl's gotta add a little spice, right? After all, I have a reputation. I hope you all are not disappointed that I caved to convention. Please don't tell anyone, 'kay?
Nurse installs the IV on the back of my hand. She is a pro, sticking me in the right spot the first time. What's your pain level on a scale of 1 to 10, she asks. Aside from a nasty two-day migraine, the neck pain is at about 4. She and cohorts assure me I will find much relief after the radio frequency zaps to the affected nerve endings in my cervical spine.
As with pain injections, in the O.R. I drape myself over this makeshift pillow so they can easily get to my neck. The girls have to be resituated a few times, as being pressed into a towel-wrapped cushion with the comfort and density of a Sedona boulder is not their idea of fun. And my girls are no stranger to fun. My caretakers strap my legs to the table, throw something over my granny skivs, and tack my arms to my sides with Velcro strips. Apparently, they do not want me to take flight. I remember then that my procedure involves electrodes and a technique I call Shock-N-Block, and I wonder if I might buck myself off the table without restraints. Will somebody please knock me out before I dwell on that?
I say to the party of five wearing chest protection and gloves normally reserved for x-rays, "Gee, now that I'm trussed up like a turkey, I hope I don't have to make a quick exit."
I hear a timid gobble gobble, but then I am rudely awakened and flipped over, back onto the gurney. That's how fast that anesthesia works and how quickly they rouse me after it's all over but the squawking. I haven't even left the O.R. yet.
In recovery, my neck feels like a baseball bat is wedged under it, and the bandages are too tight. I squawk about the discomfort and they say I can take Tylenol when I get home. Even in my post-op euphoria, I think, Are you fucking kidding me? Tylenol is for pregnant women and pansies. "My pain level is at eleven. You remember eleven, right?" I then lapse back into a pleasantly stoned catnap.
Next thing I know, TG is once again picking up her Sears small appliance and taxiing me home. And now my neck is throbbing. They have not sent me home with Rx for pain. WTF? I call the doc's office and remain on hold for the full 40-minute excursion home in I-35 traffic. Just as we pull into the drive, I speak to someone who has a brain, and she agrees to call in a 'scrip to the pharmacy. I love her. She is getting flowers. But it is another two hours before I get the drugs. The good drugs. Sixty tablets! And me, meds averse, will probably use 3-4 of them. But now I just want some relief from the ninety-pound anvil on my neck, and my daughter is begging me to quit following her around whining like a cranky two-year-old who needs a nap. So I toss one back with a Diet Coke and count off the minutes before sweet relief.
I am not disappointed. May I say, post-op pain is excruciating. Darvocet, on the other hand, is the soothing serenity of seriously sedated gods. And now I must get out of bed and go enjoy another.