Melicious Details

And then you asked: Does it come with a bottle of drool?

My friend Professor Steve alerted me to this photo. I told him he should put it on his blog, but Professor Steve doesn't have a blog and doesn't want one.  He says he never will and I can take that to the banque. Steve lives close to Canada, which must be why he spells banque that way.

But enough about Steve.  Here's the conversation I am imagining you and I would be having right now:

You:  What's with the lady and the dog?
Me:   The lovely jacket worn by that lady is made entirely of fur from her Newfoundland!
You:  Shut. Up. 
Me:  Really.
You:  Eeeeeeewww.  Is the jacket really really bulky or is her head just small?
Me:  Um. I'm not sure.
You:  Is that a gold brooch on the lapel? Is she accessorizing her dog fur jacket??
Me:  Hmm.  Maybe.
You:  Do you think she takes the jacket to the groomer when it gets dirty? Like when other dogs lift their leg on her??
Me:  Possibly.
You:  That jacket could not be more unattractive. Who would actually wear something like that? She looks ridiculous.
Me:  You are so mean.

If Someone Offers You a Morphine Pump, Say Yes.

I had surgery a couple of weeks ago.  Because, for one thing of many things, having surgery meant I could avoid having to take a drug for five years (yes, FIVE YEARS) that has a long list of creepy side effects like it might cause you to grow a third eye.  OK, maybe not a third eye.  But still, potentially unattractive side effects are possible with that drug.  Which will remain nameless.  Thus, the surgery.

One of the first things I remember when I woke up from the anesthesia was the nurse handing me a small cylindrical thingy and saying:  Here is your morphine pump.  And me thinking:  she is out of her mind!  I am not using a morphine pump.

Because I don't do drugs.  I've never taken prescription meds for longer than 2 weeks.  I barely know if there is a difference between Advil and Tylenol.  Is there?  I can never remember.

The nurse leaves, visitors arrive, and so does the aching and the throbbing and a kind of searing burning pain that gets worse when I breathe. That's when I realized what I really really really needed was a morphine pump and THANK GOD I has holding one in my left hand.

Those people who invented the morphine pump?  Very clever.  They made it so you only get a teeny tiny little dose every 10 minutes if you push the pump.  When you push the pump successfully it makes a delightful little dinging sound.  If you push it before 10 minutes is up, it makes an obnoxious, let's tell the whole world you are a drug addict BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! sound.

I learned three things happen when you use a morphine pump.
#1. The pains stops screaming at you right away.
#2. You believe you are completely lucid at all times despite the fact that you are injecting a narcotic directly into your vein.
#3. You lose the ability to tell time.

At 2:19 p.m. I am becoming a morphine pump expert.  I make a mental note that in 10 minutes it will be 2:29.  I push the pump.  Ding.  I am blissful.  Did I just have surgery?  I can't believe I don't have any pain.

At 2:23 I look at the clock and realize hey! it's time for more morphine!  I push the pump again.  BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Something must be wrong. I address all of my visitors, but specifically Clyde because it is his job to fix things.

Me:  This isn't working.

To prove my point, I push the pump again. BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Clyde:  You just did it a few minutes ago.

Me:  I did not.

Clyde:  Yes you did.  It hasn't been 10 minutes yet.

Me:  Yes it has.

I push the pump again, because it has definitely been 10 minutes by now.  BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Me:  See?? It's NOT WORKING.

I am told this conversation was repeated five or six times an hour for the next 12 hours.  Thankfully, I don't remember any of that.

Mistaken Identity

At first I thought he had somehow gotten the step stool out and climbed up and opened the knife drawer (a real accomplishment without opposable thumbs) but then I realized:  Oh. They are not referring to MY Trio.