Where the Dead Fern Grows

I spent the past month before I had knee surgery trying to nurse my 9 year old daughter’s chameleon, Fern, back to health. Fern became “egg bound.” Essentially, this means she was pregnant, but unable to push those life-suckers out. The only solution to this harrowing predicament was to spay and pray. Now before you Pro-Lifers start sending me hate mail and burning crosses in my yard, calm your shit down. While I did “technically” pay for a chameleon abortion(s), they were FAKE babies. Fern was a virgin. Like me. Fern miraculously survived her hysterectomy and I dutifully administered a calcium fortified liquid diet, medications and insects two times a day. Fern remained in seclusion except when I was shuttling her back and forth to the vet for intravenous fluids and x-rays to minimize stress. Despite our valid efforts, Fern ultimately succumbed to her condition the week before my surgery. Predictably, my daughter was hysterical. Through racking sobs she said, “FIRST PRINCE, NOW FERN, IF KENNY G. DIES, I AM JUST DONE!” I held her tightly and awkwardly patted her odd, odd little head. My daughter was adamant that Fern be cremated so she could “wear her ashes in a locket” around her neck. Mike started to say “Oh Heeeeeeell No” until I violently shook my head and glared at him. Men understand approximately mmmmmmm let’s see….nothing. Mike kept trying to toss Fern’s lifeless body on our barbecue because he didn’t want to pay to have a chameleon cremated like a normal person would. Sometimes I wonder if I even know him. *Our vet has since hired a financial advisor to help him manage his overseas investments due to the sudden unexpected influx of capital. Now, on the contrary I did not die during my surgery. I do not know why God chooses to take some and leave others. It totally tears me up too. What I do know is anesthesia is really a human lie detector test that should be utilized by the FBI. (Insert Deep Monotone Voice) “Mr. Jankubavarmickawitz- Did you embezzle the money?” (Insert High Pitched Giggles and A Slur) “Whhhhhhhy yeeeesssss I did! And I spent it all on cocaine and hookers and it was the most amazing night of my life. Oh and I hate radishes.” (Makes gun pointy fingers at the agent and promptly falls asleep.) In my case, I could not stop thinking about an inspirational picture in my doctor’s office of Jesus standing over surgeons, guiding them as they performed a boob job or some shit. So when they put that truth serum in my IV, I informed the nurses that I totally didn’t care if Jesus assisted with my knee, but he needed to scrub in. Like he needed to wear gloves and a mask. Because I didn’t want to get a MRSA infection. Then because I am not quite rotten enough, when I woke up from surgery, I managed to call Mike one of my dumb ex-boyfriend’s names, yell across the recovery room that I didn’t poop during surgery, steal a candy bar from doctor’s scrub pocket and tell the nurse that she had perfectly shaped eyebrows 4,000 times. Someone took me home and I don’t remember anything else. My sincere apologies if I called or texted you during this time. But, then again, you probably do have bad breath and this is probably why you are still single. Someone needed to tell you. So actually you’re welcome. XO