Disclaimer: This blog may have been written under the influence of OTC sedatives. If you are the criticizing type, I urge you to stop reading. If you are the criticizing type and continue reading, I urge you to take your complaints and shove them.
At 9pm last night, I was still a cranky girl due to possibly the least eventful work day that I’ve had in the past 3 months. Most of the day was spent complaining to whoever would listen to me and constructing elaborate castles out of office supplies on my desk. At 9 pm I was in such a foul mood that I Advil PM’ed myself to ensure a good night’s sleep instead of one of those fretful, emo-poetry-writing-in-your-head kind of nights. No disturbing little sonnets. That’s a plus for Advil PM.
Normally I can shake my drugs off by the time I need to leave the house in the morning, but that doesn’t seem to be the case today. I half shook it off. I was fully capable of driving but I was sedately listening to The Shins on my commute instead of baring my teeth and hollering at minivans. No road rage or sprained middle fingers. That’s another plus for Advil PM.
All this positivity isn’t enough to save me from drifting off to sleep in a more recumbent position than my swivel chair is intended for. From the minute I sat down at the computer, my eyes started drooping. Narcolepsy. Definitely minus one for Advil PM.
I was the first one in the office this morning but now my coworkers are coming in thick and fast and they all want to talk about last night’s American Idol. Can you not see me trying to nap here? Fine, we’ll chat. Unfortunately, though my hooded eyes suggest I am awake, my speech pattern does not and now I’m very sure my peers think I am stoned. Minus another one for Advil PM.
This leaves me with very few options. I could build another Post-It fortress or I could sit here and inanely blog with drool on my chin which is actually the more legitimate looking way to spend my time.
Showing posts with label drugs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label drugs. Show all posts
Friday, March 27, 2009
Friday, September 26, 2008
More Projects I Started and Then Forgot About / I Still Have a Blog?!
I’ve made it through almost a month of unemployment and besides a booming social calendar and a dwindling checking account, I have very little to show for my time other than a touch of insomnia. While I wait for this Benadryl to knock me out so I can finally get a good night’s sleep this week, I thought I’d check in. Nothing puts me to sleep so well as listening to myself talk. In the dark. To the Internet.
I’ve had a couple of complaints from my Only Fan that updates have not been coming at their usual frequent pace. For this I apologize and offer the following excuse: I have very little (good) material to share with you. For monetary and liver-tary reasons, I’ve scaled back on drinking (except for last weekend which was a shit show in New Hampshire where I took shots and ate sauerkraut in the same day which is a VERY BAD IDEA) so I have fewer wild and crazy stories to divulge and also I fall down less often. Mostly I putter around the house, read 19th century fiction, water plants, do laundry, and spy on my neighbors.
I also voraciously apply to every publishing house in the Boston area while our economy crumbles and hope that someone employs me soon so I won’t have to start bootlegging gin out of the washing machine (no bathtub – it’s the only option). On that note, I just had my second interview with an awesome company that felt promising but now that I’ve jinxed it and probably won’t get it, I’ll come back and cry to you next week when I hear back. I also crawled back to that grad program that I deferred in the spring and told them I’d be enrolling in the spring (hopefully part-time if this whole getting-a-job thing works out). So, I’m theoretically back on track to get a Masters in Books. We’ll see how that goes.
In my puttering today I discovered that we once again have a mouse which is not unusual in an old Victorian in New England at the onset of cold weather but nonetheless grosses me out when I want a piece of toast and find that something has chewed through the plastic bag and nibbled a circular portion of my whole wheat bread. This happened sometime last year when I left an unprotected loaf on a shelf with a large obvious mouse hole, but this time the food was in a bowl with tall, smooth sides on a counter devoid of holes. This led me to believe I have not just a rodent but indeed a Super Spiderman Ninja Mouse that carries nun chucks and wears a little black mask like Zorro. Bologna (who is visiting for the weekend) disagreed and demonstrated vividly how the villain might climb up the pipes under my sink, through a crack in the stove, hoist itself up on the ledge around the counter and from there jump into the bowl. So, OK, either I have a Super Spiderman Ninja Mouse or a Super Intelligent Mouse with Logistical Powers and Planning Ability Far Exceeding My Own. Neither makes me feel comfortable in my kitchen. But so help me God, if I see that thing crawling around on the ceiling like the baby in Trainspotting, I will spray its ass with Raid faster than you can say “Hey, I think the Benadryl kicked in.”
I’ve had a couple of complaints from my Only Fan that updates have not been coming at their usual frequent pace. For this I apologize and offer the following excuse: I have very little (good) material to share with you. For monetary and liver-tary reasons, I’ve scaled back on drinking (except for last weekend which was a shit show in New Hampshire where I took shots and ate sauerkraut in the same day which is a VERY BAD IDEA) so I have fewer wild and crazy stories to divulge and also I fall down less often. Mostly I putter around the house, read 19th century fiction, water plants, do laundry, and spy on my neighbors.
I also voraciously apply to every publishing house in the Boston area while our economy crumbles and hope that someone employs me soon so I won’t have to start bootlegging gin out of the washing machine (no bathtub – it’s the only option). On that note, I just had my second interview with an awesome company that felt promising but now that I’ve jinxed it and probably won’t get it, I’ll come back and cry to you next week when I hear back. I also crawled back to that grad program that I deferred in the spring and told them I’d be enrolling in the spring (hopefully part-time if this whole getting-a-job thing works out). So, I’m theoretically back on track to get a Masters in Books. We’ll see how that goes.
In my puttering today I discovered that we once again have a mouse which is not unusual in an old Victorian in New England at the onset of cold weather but nonetheless grosses me out when I want a piece of toast and find that something has chewed through the plastic bag and nibbled a circular portion of my whole wheat bread. This happened sometime last year when I left an unprotected loaf on a shelf with a large obvious mouse hole, but this time the food was in a bowl with tall, smooth sides on a counter devoid of holes. This led me to believe I have not just a rodent but indeed a Super Spiderman Ninja Mouse that carries nun chucks and wears a little black mask like Zorro. Bologna (who is visiting for the weekend) disagreed and demonstrated vividly how the villain might climb up the pipes under my sink, through a crack in the stove, hoist itself up on the ledge around the counter and from there jump into the bowl. So, OK, either I have a Super Spiderman Ninja Mouse or a Super Intelligent Mouse with Logistical Powers and Planning Ability Far Exceeding My Own. Neither makes me feel comfortable in my kitchen. But so help me God, if I see that thing crawling around on the ceiling like the baby in Trainspotting, I will spray its ass with Raid faster than you can say “Hey, I think the Benadryl kicked in.”
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
It's not hypochondria if there's really something wrong with you
Turns out it isn't a third cold. It's bronchitis. For the past 2 days I've been bundled up in my flannel PJs under the Mystery Blanket* and drinking Tussin like a teenager with no good connections. I wrote an entry yesterday before Beau got home from work to entertain me. Suffice it to say, it described my activities as playing Enya on loop and attempting to rename the teaspoon. I have nothing to show for my efforts but I am now a fan of Lemon Zinger.
*The Mystery Blanket is a blue and white striped knitted blanket of unknown origins. It appeared in a box of my possessions when I moved out of my father’s home after college. As far as I know, it is not mine. No one in the family knits and no one will claim responsibility for it. While contemplating this fact in my Tussined state, I drew a parallel between the Mystery Blanket and Harry Potter’s Invisibility Cloak, which, you may remember, was a similar enigma when it first appeared. To test this theory, I threw the Mystery Blanket over my head and stood in front of the bathroom mirror. Several minutes later, still able to clearly see my reflection, I resolved to scale back on my subjective dosing methods and not ask Beau for help in further experimentation.
*The Mystery Blanket is a blue and white striped knitted blanket of unknown origins. It appeared in a box of my possessions when I moved out of my father’s home after college. As far as I know, it is not mine. No one in the family knits and no one will claim responsibility for it. While contemplating this fact in my Tussined state, I drew a parallel between the Mystery Blanket and Harry Potter’s Invisibility Cloak, which, you may remember, was a similar enigma when it first appeared. To test this theory, I threw the Mystery Blanket over my head and stood in front of the bathroom mirror. Several minutes later, still able to clearly see my reflection, I resolved to scale back on my subjective dosing methods and not ask Beau for help in further experimentation.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
In which I eat some Percocet and start a blog
I'm bad at introductions so I thought I'd skip that and launch straight into why they actually GAVE me pain medicine. Almost for free!
About a year and a half ago when I belonged to the most unholy of all professions, Freelancers, and thus had no health insurance, I began teething. That is because after 22 years of waiting, my wisdom teeth decided to be born after all. They also decided to take after me and half ass it. So I was stuck with a molar sticking partially out of my gum which was slightly uncomfortable. The real problem was that due to my moderate tendency towards hypochondria, I grew concerned that it would become infected causing some butcher in the emergency room to give me a jaw-rectomy, remove half my face, and leave me unable to chew and/or date. Sometimes I do both at once.
I discussed this issue with my then boss, a catalogue copywriter who smoked brown cigarettes from France and smelled like gin, because I often discuss inappropriate personal issues with practical strangers. Ergo blog. And also how I know about the bowel movement regularity of the girls from my college dorm. So my boss gave me the name of a fabulous Manhattan dentist down the street. I knew that it was meant to be because it had been rainy that week and I could access his office using the underground Rockefeller labyrinth which should NEVER be attempted when you are coming back late after lunch or if you've had more than 2 drinks.
True story, he had a pretty view from his office but $500 later I decided not to let this bad, bad man remove my teeth for several million dollars. When I started craving rawhide bones earlier this fall, I knew the time had come especially since I had dental insurance and wanted to be able to chew for the big family Thanksgiving trip to Florida.
On top of my hypochondria, I also greatly dislike dentists. Let's just say that I cried the last time I had a cavity filled. When I told this to the oral surgeon, he agreed that it might be best to knock me the fuck out before going in. Also I told him that I bite and if he wanted proof he could look at Beau's arm.
That's pretty much the back story to why I got to leave work early yesterday and take a lovely walk across the Longfellow bridge to MGH where they took away my clothing, purse, and underpants and forced me to wear ugly, size XXL hospital PJs that had an unearthly orange stain on the shoulder. But they did provide those socks with little grippies on the bottom of which I am a HUGE fan. Dressed in such an ensemble I spent an hour or so reading in the lobby with people who were not dressed like they lived in a mental ward.
Finally they brought me back to the pre-op area where I was given a little bed of my own with little privacy curtains of my own. Come to think of it, they really gave me a lot of things yesterday. The list of giving continues thusly:
- Warm blankets ... and I don't mean blankets which make you warm. I mean blankets which have been toasted prior to wrapped around you. It was like being a lovely little hospitalized burrito. If my dryer wasn't 3 flights of stairs away, I would do it every night.
- An IV full of yumminess which was very appreciated because I wasn't allowed to eat or drink anything past midnight the night before. Not even water... or worse, coffee.
- Medicine to "relax" me. Or, as the younger anesthesiologist called it, my Friday cocktail. Finally, someone spoke my language. I asked him to join me, but he said that would be a bad idea. Whatev, his loss.
Sometime after my cocktail, I woke up in the recovery room babbling about how I wanted to see Beau. They brought him to me (more of the giving) looking very concerned with that cute little furrowed brow that he does whenever I look ill or he's confused by something. Despite the thoughtful presents, I was pretty ready to get out of there so I stumbled around until I got my pants on the right way and my shoes (mostly) on. Once that was done they plopped me in a wheelchair and handed me off to Beau which was excellent because I like to be lazy whenever I see the opportunity to do so.
As my sister, the artist formerly known as Bologna, had informed me Friday morning, it's best to pick up your pain meds before the hospital goodies wear off. Though she didn't say it like that. She told me about when my brother-in-law had his wisdom teeth removed and delayed in the getting-of-the-pain-meds because he thinks he's a tough guy which resulted in his hollering and kicking things in the backseat of a car. Thanks for the consoling words, Bologna! I wasn't already about to CRAP MY PANTS before the surgery or anything. Anyway, that's why we went directly from the hospital to the local CVS where I handed them my prescription papers and told them "Um, now" when they asked when I'd like to pick up the goods.
Beau and I hung out in the little loungey place for a few minutes where I kind of dozed until they called my name. It wasn't until after the lady in front of us in line had inquired into my apparent state of postsurgeryness and I'd paid for my narcotics that Beau informed me that I had blood all over my face. Oh. And I thought people were just staring at my ice pack cum hat. Dear Internet People, what have your mothers been teaching you? Isn't it common practice to let a friend know when they have a boogey hanging out of their nose or, ya know, blood spattered across their cheek?
I digress because Beau then took me home and made me soup since he knows how Hangry (that's hungry gone angry) I get when I haven't eaten in a few hours and at this point it had been 24 hours since I'd put something yummy in my mouth which is 24 hours too many for my taste.
Here I am now: camped out on the couch with a stack of DVDs, a bottle of Percocet and all the ice cream a girl could ever want. On that note, Ima go watch a little TV and play with my toes. Goodnight!
About a year and a half ago when I belonged to the most unholy of all professions, Freelancers, and thus had no health insurance, I began teething. That is because after 22 years of waiting, my wisdom teeth decided to be born after all. They also decided to take after me and half ass it. So I was stuck with a molar sticking partially out of my gum which was slightly uncomfortable. The real problem was that due to my moderate tendency towards hypochondria, I grew concerned that it would become infected causing some butcher in the emergency room to give me a jaw-rectomy, remove half my face, and leave me unable to chew and/or date. Sometimes I do both at once.
I discussed this issue with my then boss, a catalogue copywriter who smoked brown cigarettes from France and smelled like gin, because I often discuss inappropriate personal issues with practical strangers. Ergo blog. And also how I know about the bowel movement regularity of the girls from my college dorm. So my boss gave me the name of a fabulous Manhattan dentist down the street. I knew that it was meant to be because it had been rainy that week and I could access his office using the underground Rockefeller labyrinth which should NEVER be attempted when you are coming back late after lunch or if you've had more than 2 drinks.
True story, he had a pretty view from his office but $500 later I decided not to let this bad, bad man remove my teeth for several million dollars. When I started craving rawhide bones earlier this fall, I knew the time had come especially since I had dental insurance and wanted to be able to chew for the big family Thanksgiving trip to Florida.
On top of my hypochondria, I also greatly dislike dentists. Let's just say that I cried the last time I had a cavity filled. When I told this to the oral surgeon, he agreed that it might be best to knock me the fuck out before going in. Also I told him that I bite and if he wanted proof he could look at Beau's arm.
That's pretty much the back story to why I got to leave work early yesterday and take a lovely walk across the Longfellow bridge to MGH where they took away my clothing, purse, and underpants and forced me to wear ugly, size XXL hospital PJs that had an unearthly orange stain on the shoulder. But they did provide those socks with little grippies on the bottom of which I am a HUGE fan. Dressed in such an ensemble I spent an hour or so reading in the lobby with people who were not dressed like they lived in a mental ward.
Finally they brought me back to the pre-op area where I was given a little bed of my own with little privacy curtains of my own. Come to think of it, they really gave me a lot of things yesterday. The list of giving continues thusly:
- Warm blankets ... and I don't mean blankets which make you warm. I mean blankets which have been toasted prior to wrapped around you. It was like being a lovely little hospitalized burrito. If my dryer wasn't 3 flights of stairs away, I would do it every night.
- An IV full of yumminess which was very appreciated because I wasn't allowed to eat or drink anything past midnight the night before. Not even water... or worse, coffee.
- Medicine to "relax" me. Or, as the younger anesthesiologist called it, my Friday cocktail. Finally, someone spoke my language. I asked him to join me, but he said that would be a bad idea. Whatev, his loss.
Sometime after my cocktail, I woke up in the recovery room babbling about how I wanted to see Beau. They brought him to me (more of the giving) looking very concerned with that cute little furrowed brow that he does whenever I look ill or he's confused by something. Despite the thoughtful presents, I was pretty ready to get out of there so I stumbled around until I got my pants on the right way and my shoes (mostly) on. Once that was done they plopped me in a wheelchair and handed me off to Beau which was excellent because I like to be lazy whenever I see the opportunity to do so.
As my sister, the artist formerly known as Bologna, had informed me Friday morning, it's best to pick up your pain meds before the hospital goodies wear off. Though she didn't say it like that. She told me about when my brother-in-law had his wisdom teeth removed and delayed in the getting-of-the-pain-meds because he thinks he's a tough guy which resulted in his hollering and kicking things in the backseat of a car. Thanks for the consoling words, Bologna! I wasn't already about to CRAP MY PANTS before the surgery or anything. Anyway, that's why we went directly from the hospital to the local CVS where I handed them my prescription papers and told them "Um, now" when they asked when I'd like to pick up the goods.
Beau and I hung out in the little loungey place for a few minutes where I kind of dozed until they called my name. It wasn't until after the lady in front of us in line had inquired into my apparent state of postsurgeryness and I'd paid for my narcotics that Beau informed me that I had blood all over my face. Oh. And I thought people were just staring at my ice pack cum hat. Dear Internet People, what have your mothers been teaching you? Isn't it common practice to let a friend know when they have a boogey hanging out of their nose or, ya know, blood spattered across their cheek?
I digress because Beau then took me home and made me soup since he knows how Hangry (that's hungry gone angry) I get when I haven't eaten in a few hours and at this point it had been 24 hours since I'd put something yummy in my mouth which is 24 hours too many for my taste.
Here I am now: camped out on the couch with a stack of DVDs, a bottle of Percocet and all the ice cream a girl could ever want. On that note, Ima go watch a little TV and play with my toes. Goodnight!
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