I started my day off yesterday by attending a pre-op instructional session in preparation for my gastric sleeve surgery. Thankfully, I noticed the “wet floor” sign before slipping in the trail of poop leading down the hallway. Nice visual for those considering gastric bypass: avoid “dumping syndrome”. That’s pretty much the only new thing I learned. Everything else had been covered twice before: once in the first consultation after my application was accepted, and once in the massive binder that is too heavy for me to carry around for reference. Perhaps they think fat people are stupid. We aren’t. But neither are we jolly.
No, I did learn one other fact. I will not be released a day early for being the perkiest, most compliant patient there. I don’t know why not, since it worked just fine in the lock-down psych unit. Anyway, that means I will have to re-schedule my annual mammogram and lady-parts exam that was scheduled for two days post-op. That’s probably a good idea, anyway. My pain threshold is high, but I’m not Superwoman. Pause here and insert visual of Superwoman parking her invisible plane and pulling down the sparkly bodice of her crime-fighting get-up for a mammogram. OK, now try getting that picture out of your head the rest of the day. Welcome to my world.
Oh, and yesterday’s post-op instructions also suggested that I not sleep with my dogs. As. If. After two nights away I’m going to be getting lots of puppy snuggles. My dogs are a lot cleaner than most MRSA-ridden hospitals, anyway! Maybe I’ll just have the guys give them a bath before I come home. That’s a reasonable compromise. (FYI, compromise = do it my way)
Remember all those things I said about how I love marching band? I don’t. Band Camp sucks. If the dad in the green truck blocks me in one more time because he’s too important for a parking space I may just back out of my handicapped space and make the logo on his door a bit “distressed”. And I will go help the Pit move their stuff in, probably while using my cane, because I’m tired of getting home at 10:15 because the rest of the band kids are lazy and self-absorbed. Especially the color guard. Oh, yes, I did. I just went there! Haul your tutu-clad butts over to those marimbas and push!
My next-door neighbor and his cousin painted the side of our neighbor’s garage that faces our yard yesterday. The day before that Mark, the cousin, came over to let me know what he was doing and ask that I keep the dogs inside. I told him they’d just had a potty break and they’d be fine for several hours. Michael had recently cut down an old pussy willow near the garage, so all that was there was a weedy bed of daylilies and hostas. Yes, there were weeds. I can’t do yardwork and Michael and John don’t have time right now, so we have a lot of weeds. But Mark proceeded to not just pull away any climbing weeds that were in his way, but to take out the entire planting bed! And then yesterday the two of them spent all day painting. They were putting white paint on a white garage that had a little flaking. They weren’t reproducing the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. So I tried to take my dogs out into the front yard (one at a time) to go potty. They are too strong, and I really can’t handle either of them on a leash. My back was killing me before I even got to the second dog. But somehow they’ve both developed shy bladders, and can’t go in the front yard, only the back yard. Sam must have peed a gallon by the time the painting was finished.
If my neighbor was so offended by my weedy perennials (and this wasn’t even the crazy neighbor, this was the normal one!) then perhaps I need to borrow my step-mom’s chickens. She said they’ve eaten her flowers, her garden, and the weeds, along with their daily ration of food. I think they may need to come for a visit. I’ll send them home fat and sassy!
Best of all, today is the last day of the month, so I will run out of pain pills about mid-day. I’ve been calling my doctor’s office and leaving messages for his assistant all week. She never calls back. So I’m calling once early this morning, and then I’m going to go sit in the waiting room until someone gives me a prescription. And you can just imagine how pleasant I will be. Oh, and Sunday is my twenty-ninth wedding anniversary. At this rate I may be spending it in jail, which is just fine, since I look fabulous in orange and am spoiling for a fight.
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