I do almost all of the manual labor around my house. (Some might argue it’s because I’m really a man, but that’s neither here nor there. But rest assured that if I had a penis, The Internet would be the first I’d tell. And then I’d write my name in pee in the snow. Because, hello, AWESOME!)
It’s not a judgement statement and I’m not all “OhMyGOD, I do EVERYTHING around the house” *flings hand to forehead dramatically* because I don’t care much. Or I should say, I’m used to it.
(TOTAL aside time, here’s what a man I am: a couple of years ago, some creature got into our garage at night. And when I realized it, I ran out there brandishing a broom while Dave and Ben watched from the door, eyes wide as saucers. I think I grew some chest hair that night.)
Problem with this division of labor is the fact that I am a total klutz. I am so ungraceful that I make (insert another word for klutz here) look downright normal. I’ve broken a toe making a sandwich, broke the front door by falling through it (completely sober, I should add) and successfully done the splits for the first time while 36 weeks pregnant after washing the kitchen floor.
So it comes as no real surprise that I hurt myself a couple of weeks ago while taking out the garbage. I’m not even going to lie to you and tell you that it was a heavy bag, bursting at the seams, nor did I do so to save Little Timmy from a burning building. Hell, I didn’t even rescue some adorable kittens from a tree while I did so.
No, during a perfectly ordinary garbage-bag-throwing-into-the-big-container- sexy-fun-time (I am totally kidding about the sexy fun time), I managed to throw out my back. The lower part, you know, by the coccyx? After several days where I crankily moped about the house having to ask my willing reluctant husband to do such things as “bring me the baby” or “take out the garbage” while he rolled his eyes at me, it miraculously got better.
It was a friggin’ Easter Miracle.
So, it was NOT The Awesome to wake up a couple of days ago with the flaming pain making me whimper when I moved my foot or rotated my body in any way. Of course, this is while Dave is lying about the house, sick as a dog with The Rota. Made me feel almost bad to require his germy, pathetic help.
But finally, after hobbling about my house like an old woman, I called the damn doctor (his real title! The Damn Doctor). And now, let’s just say, Internet, I won’t be complaining about going back to visit him.
Not after he gave me a script for some muscle relaxers and, wait for it, wait for it…
Delicious, sweet, nectar of the Gods, VICODIN.
And let’s just say, Internet, that I am now stoned out of my gourd (Dave is home with me so don’t worry, sweet Internet, I am not in charge of my kidlets alone and high as a kite). I don’t really know where this post started or where it went. It probably made very little sense, but hey, I know I’m not raging against the machine. Which probably would be more entertaining. Because who DOESN’T like Internet Rubbernecking?
Oh, and to those of you who will be coming over this weekend for The Big Party? I am TOTALLY not sharing my pills. And Aoxomoxoa is TOTALLY wicked when you’re high. Also: very hard to spell.
So, what’s on YOUR mind today, Internet? I promise to be highly entertained by anything you say. Or what do YOU want me to tell you about knowing that my internal filter is completely off?