Just Called to Say Hi-ve

Because I pride myself on being a relatively decent friend, I made a courtesy phone call to my friend Margie and asked her if she would have an issue if I showed her husband my rack.  She said considering the circumstances she thought it would be a good idea.  Annnnnnd, this is what has to happen when you are good friends with your family physician and his wife.  Personally, I feel slightly embarrassed handing over my urine for a yearly physical.  My husband on the other hand, has no issue having his prostate checked by our doctor on a Wednesday and then having dinner with them on Friday.  Um, gross.  Helll-looo.  His friend does things to him that I would not even consider.  Men are sick. 

Anyway, Mike was out of town last night, my brand new knockers were hurting, I was exhausted and told my children they could sleep with me if they would just please go to bed.  (Actually, I said it in a bitchy tone with a hint of squalid desperation).   Sometime around 1:00am, my daughter punched me in the boobs in her sleep and it took every ounce of strength not to scream bloody murder.  I hobbled downstairs and took ½ of a Percocet and lied down on the couch.  Within thirty minutes I was COVERED in hives, itching insanely and too stoned to even care.  However, even in my precarious state, I did manage to text Mike and tell him to call 911 in the morning if I did not answer the phone, since the children would likely be watching an R-rated movie, drinking coffee, riding their scooters in the house (without their helmets) and eating ice-cream for breakfast while mommy was “sleeping”.

Fortunately, I was able to fight off anaphylactic shock and woke up this morning covered in huge, red welts all over my body.  And this is when I called my friend and subsequently made a doctor’s appointment.  Well, they don’t call him doctor for nothin’, because it was immediately determined that I am indeed allergic to Percocet.  I choked back tears as his diagnosis registered.  Nooooooooooooooo God, Nooooooooooooooooo.  Anything. But.This.  The 2 pills I had taken over the course of the week made me feel so happy, so free and so relaxed before I barfed them up.  Why couldn’t I be allergic to something less pleasurable, like carbohydrates, oxygen, or water?

Clearly, the universe is throwing up every road block it can think of to keep me off the prospective road of addiction, sans facebook.  However, in lieu of recent circumstances, I would not be the least bit surprised if my computer randomly combusts into a pile of flames this afternoon.  I cannot drink alcohol without getting pregnant, I cannot get hooked on shopping because my children have a propensity of hiding in clothing racks and not responding when I call them which induces immediate panic and elevated blood pressure, and now I obviously cannot become addicted to plastic surgery or pain medicine because the aftermath entirely defeats the purpose of surgically modifying myself to enhance my inherent sexual prowess in the first place.  Well, ain’t that just swell.  XO