Mer’s note: This was taken almost verbatim from the lovely Kazz’s burgeoning blog, The WildKazzBeast: The Life & Times of a Pinup Tomboy, but I felt I needed to reprint it here with a few, uh, “notes.”
Adventures with Mimsy Migraine Meredith, and how I know Mother Nature’s got it out for me.
Well. One of my closest friends who I mention ALL THE DAMN TIME is sick. Not just sick… but five-week-long migraine sick.
She was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia (an’ other stuff. Just sayin’.). This means she has to begin believing in the possibility that the disease exists. I’m not sure if she will, seeing as she is very steadfast in her opinions… but we shall see.
This migraine has scored her a FAN-FUCKING-TASTIC cocktail of drugs.
Lortab. Hydrocodone. Xanax. Steroids.
Yes, folks, my friend and “Jewish mom,” my voice of reason, has set off to LaLa land in her lavender and pastel mint green dirigible… possibly never to be seen again – but when she can’t sleep, she’s certainly productive… hand-washing and reorganizing EVERY PIECE OF TUPPERWARE IN HER CUPBOARD (yeah, those were the ‘roids talking)… and narc-texting everyone with incoherent messages that are so garbled and misspelled that it’s more like listening to Spanglish when you don’t speak Spanish. The point gets across… but there is no eloquence to the text. (I would just like to state for the record that we, indeed, did NOT have enough blackberries for the pie. Though the verdict’s still out on how Smurfette played a role.)
I’d also like to add she is still fully capable of correcting everyone else’s grammar… ALOT. ;) (despite the fact that I love you, I hate you very much right now. See also: ALOT.)
The other day her Facebook post very simply stated that she was miserable (which has been the case for five weeks now) and that she needed Gatorade delivery. I posted I’d be there at lunchtime.
I called her to see that she was still awake and ask if she still wanted Gatorade. She mumbled/slurred (Slurrbled?) quite a bit… but I caught a “yes” in there somewhere.
“Oh, honey,” I said. “You sound AWFUL!”
She slurrbled some more. I asked her about her favorite flavor.
Then, clear as a bell, in what can only be described as a voice fitting a three-year-old DRUNK, she stated,
“I LIEK ORNG. YESH. FANKOO.” (One cannot be faulted for a love of orange Gatorade so profound it stays with her in times of great confusion.)
I asked if she could eat.
“Slurrble frizzle flurr.”
“Ok, honey. I’ll bring you food.”
I got in my car. It was a lovely afternoon. Warm. Breezy. Sunny. This boded well.
Popped over to the gas station for two of the larger bottles of Gatorade from the cooler, and picked up a couple of Whoppers from the attached Burger King. I know, fast food isn’t good… but the Whopper is the least of the evils according to “Eat This Not That.” (wtf? More information needed, please. Would like to approach new DIETCOKEISPOISIN doc with such statistics.)
I was greeted at Meredith’s house by the barrage of dogs that loves to come and say hello… baring their teeth, NOT to be all growly, but rather… because they are trying to smile, like people do. (No, really, this happens. And it’s really fucking adorable. NOT CREEPY AT ALL, PEOPLE. I know what you’re thinking, assholes. It’s NOT CREEPY.)
I walked slowly so as not to break the dogs’ necks as they shoved their noses between my legs and promptly lost interest in my crotch in favor of the paper sack in my hands.
I started to turn back realizing I’d left my car windows open, but stopped knowing that being in suburbia, my car should remain completely untouched.
I wandered upstairs with the Gatorade and Whoppers, and stood by the lump of Meredith in her bed.
“Hallo, lady. I has for you Gatoradedness!”
Her eyes only opened a quarter of the way.
“Yes, honey. Hi. “
I put the Gatorade on her bedside table. She put her hand out and flopped it on top of the bottle… then put the bottle to her lips without taking off the cap.
“Ah. Yes. Hold on, honey. You can’t get anything out that way. “
“I KIN GE’IT!”
“Ok. Here you go.”
She fumbled with the cap for awhile.
“Hey. I can’ ge’it. Can yoo open this?”
I took the bottle back and opened it. She drank.
“Can you eat?”
“You know… They have me on so many PIIIILZ liek Lortab and Hydrocodone, and Xanax and stuff”
“I do. Are you able to eat?”
“This would be a lot more fun if I din’ feel like crap.”
This would be a lot more fun if she didn't feel like crap.
(This would be a lot more fun if I didn’t feel like crap.)
“Yes, honey. Would you like something to eat?”
“Oooh. You have fooood?”
“Yes. It’s just a whopper… but…”
“Yay! You’re so goood!”
I got the burger and brought it over, and she patted the bed with her hand to beckon me to sit down with her to eat. The dogs took her invitation personally and Sammy jumped on the bed.
“Noooooo! Not youuuuuuu, Sam. Gerroff.”
And with a nudge, Sammy Bear was down. I sat.
She slurrbled quite alot about her new doctor, who is not ONLY a doctor, but an internist as well… And she believes that the unfiltered water is poison, POISON! Did you know its POISON? I knew it was POISON. And for her birfday, she’s asking daddy for an allergen test. Did you know they test you for 96 varieties of foods and protein structures and stuff and ohmygoshifeelsobadihaventpostedonmybloginforever…
Meredith will *always* tell it like it is. ESPECIALLY when drugged.
Then, in the middle of talking, dropping bits of tomato onto her chest, and getting mayo on the corners of her mouth, she stopped.
Her chest heaved inward, and she made the sound of the child of King Kong and a T-Rex
And then relaxed, all in about a half second.
Ok, so maybe it took a full second, but in any case, this was… the most EPIC hiccup I think I’d ever heard. Her muscles were so relaxed, her body was doing hiccups in slow-mo. and then ladies and gents… came one of the highlights… a moment STRAIGHT FROM THE FUCKING EXORCIST’S CUTTING ROOM FLOOR…
Meredith rolled her eyes into the back of her head- put on her famous “GLAREFAYCE” and GLARED AT HER FUCKING HICCUPS. (It is kind of famous, really. There’s poetry.)
I couldn’t help it.
I know she’s sick.
But she’s in her underpants. (They were festive, damn it!)
With mayonnaise on one corner of her mouth.
Eyes rolled in the back of her head to glare at her hiccups, while all three dogs sit at the sides of the bed STARING INTENTLY at her burger.
I lost it. I just simply couldn’t help myself. I just about fell off the bed laughing.
Ordinarily, this would be where the glare would be redirected to me… However, she kept on hiccupping mid-sentence, and couldn’t manage to get a word out without being interrupted.
The glare stayed in her head.
We finished up our burgers and I mentioned I had to leave soon. Mer stood up and triumphantly announced her need to urinate. I offered her my shoulder to lean on, and she said “NOOO. I’LL BE FIIINE.”
And promptly tripped on the rug, forcing her to grab my shoulder. (It’s a very pretty rug, I’ll have you know. Really ties the room together.)
We arrived across the room and she thanked me and stated it was good to have someone to take her to the bathroom.
She sat on the toilet, still chattering, hiccupping and glaring at the innards of her skull.
She declared, in her best drunkard slurrble yet.
“I KNOOOUUUUW you’re in there! I can FEEL YOU!”
At this point, a very exasperated, drugged Meredith sighed with a loud, “UUUUUUGH”
And leaned forward, effectively putting her head between her knees.
“Oh, THERE you ARE!!!! See? A little puching halps.”
She sat up, feeling triumphant. And her stream was interrupted.
“NO NO NO! STOP THIS! YOU COME OUT RIGHT NOW!”
She cried, and began kneading/half slapping/half punching herself in the abdomen to make the pee come out.
So now we had a drugged up, weaving, hiccupping, glaring at the inside of her skull Meredith who was WIND-MILLING HER BLADDER in a desperate attempt to pee.
She finished, and I offered her my shoulder to get back to her bed.
She refused, and walked along, stopping in the middle of the to point out how amazingly squishy her rug is, and how its soooooo prittieeeeee! (Told you so.)
She sat on her bed.
She picked up a rolled-up graying t-shirt off the bed.
“This’s my t-shirt. Is soooo comfy.”
She flopped it over her face.
This’s my t-shirt.
She tried to flop it on my face, too, but I dodged.
“Is so comfy.”
“Mer. Do that again. I wanna take a picture of that.”
“OOOOH! You know what? YOU SHOULD POST ON MY BLOG! You wanna post on my blog? You should. I suppose that I will be out for at LEAST a few more days, and I need someone to post on my blog! Will you?”
“Uh. Ok. Sure. I can post on your blog. Can I use the photos I’ve taken today?”
“YA! That would be HILARIOUS! You need to email Jenn.” (Let us use this bit of foreshadowing for tomorrow’s post about the many ways I have abused my online bestie in the last week or so. Ahem.)
“Yeah! Jenn! Jenn Dola! Like GRANOLA only JENNDOLA Her email is-”
And she says the email address. No spelling, no information on who Jenn is, or what I need to do… just “EMAIL JEN.”
“Ok, ok. I’ll email Jenn.”
Mer points to my phone.
“NO! EMAIL HER NOW!”
“Mer, honey, not a smartphone. I’ll remember the email and send her a note when I get back to the office.”
“Ok. But email her. She knows what to do. “
“You got it. Now. Back to bed with you. Call if you need me.”
And the Slurrble monster laid back down to sleep.
Nini, loopy fayce. <3
I left her house, escorted by the dogs, still wanting to get hold of the Burger King bag to tear it apart for its meat flavored papery goodness.
I got into my car, and grabbed a couple of French fries from the fry cup I left in my cup holder. I took off my e-brake, set my car in reverse, backed out, shifted to first and started off down the street, and reached back to the back to grab my purse for some gum…
And touched fuzzy.
I don’t have any costumes or props in the car… Why is there… “Fuzzy”? (Speaking of which, I’ve still got leftover sloth-colored fur of yours in my kitchen… just, yeah.)
And then I heard it. SCREEEEEEEE SCRITCY SCRITCH SCREEEEEEEEEEE.
I slammed on the breaks and stopped the car, threw up my e-brake and opened the door, flipping the handle for the seat release with the back of my sneaker as I vacated the car and turned to see a squirrel, on a small pile of French fries in my back seat. Flitting its tail as a threat and scrittering at me like he meant business.
“NO! NO NO NO NO NO!!!!! YOU ASSHOLE! GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY CAR! THAT MY FUCKING TRANSPORTATION! GET OUT!”
He ran to the other side of the backseat.
Oh, hell naw. It was on.
Luckily, I have a hatchback.
I threw up the trunk, pulled the pin on the back of the seat and dropped it forward with all my weight on it.
Mr. fuzzy bolted out of the car, and was courteous enough to not drop his little raisinettes until AFTER he was out of my vehicle. (Thanks, Slappy!)
I got back in my car and returned to the cubicle farm that I inhabit for 40 hours per week.
I did email Jenn when I got to work… and miraculously, I got her email address right. And as I suspected, she had NO FUCKING CLUE what Meredith was on about. :) She said she would email her, but I let her know that she was likely not quite coherent enough to reply.
So. Mer. Here’s the blog post. Hot off the presses and fresh for you. Complete with photos you gave me permission to use, and a tale of natures hatred for me. <3
Does this count as a decent enough birfday present? :D
(…It so does.)