Friday, December 01, 2006

Rockin' on the Horse Size Pills

Yeah I don't like the Dandy Warhols Either, Man

But still, it's apropriate to mention the lyrics given the fact that, even though mankind is able to cram an entire Robert Siegel-size CD collection (dont bother trying to wikipedia that) into an Ipod the size of a baby's elbow, we are somehow still incapable of making certain medicine pills much smaller than that. (WARNING: This post will discuss my various medical issues, it will not be exciting, and other than the fact that my colon is weaker than Chad Pennington's arm, there is not much in the way of sports discussion here...well maybe a little at the end.) So anyway, thus the Dandies lyrical reference in the title, in reference to these awful metallic-tasting walnut sized pills I am shoving down my throat these days to keep my underside from bursting into flames. Lets hope never to cross-reference 90s grunge music from the My So Called Life soundtrack, like, ever again, OK?!

All apologies (ah, did it again) for my absence in the blogosphere, lately. See, in case you haven't picked up on it, I have been a bit under the weather. In other words, I hope you all enjoyed your thanksgiving, because I spent mine with my knees to my chest, cursing the gods in agony in my freshly painted bathroom. I mention that it was freshly painted, 'cause, well, I painted it...on Wedensday night, in preperation for hosting the in-laws, parents, and brother for the holiday. And while I was painting said bathroom I felt a pretty odd empty rumbling in my stomach. big deal right? WRONG! For the next three hours my schedule looked like this: paint 4 sq. feet, clutch waistband, rush to toilet, RELEAAAASSSEEE!!!! repeat. Oh my god. It was awful. It took me 4 hours to paint the bathroom, a good 75% of which time was spent tearfully gripping the side of the sink and wall (whoops, forgot the paint was wet!) as my stomach punished me for every awful thing I had ever done to it:

Jello Shots with Cheap vodka in Tenth grade? TAKE THAT!!
Beer-Case race with Stanley after Graduation?! HIYAAAA!!
Budweiser and Hamm's like water freshman Year?! BAAAAAAMMMM!!!
Libya? Quarters? Golf? Hockey? Asshole?! LITERALLY, BITCH!
Bratwurst and Keystone at Tailgates?! MUAHAHAHAAA!
Grain Fruit Punch in the Water Cooler? OYYYYY!!!! UGGHHHHH!
Jameson Shots? Jaeger Shots? Vodka Shots?! FUGGGGGG MEEEEEE!!!!

You ever have the feeling that sometimes karma is the cruelest fate? Sometimes you're walking and you stub your toe really friggin' hard, and all you can think is, you know I deserve that for laughing at that guy who dropped the moving boxes on his toes, or whatever? Or, you know, certain friends with really nasty senses of humor, who think roofies are funny, or whatever, just happened to be the only people you know who actually get roofied. It's crazy how the world works. I mean, the more crap changes, the more certain things remain constant: sure, it's 69 degrees in December. But there's still war in the Middle East, You will still get hungover if you drink too much, you will still be annoyed every time you look at the column on your paycheck where the taxes are deducted, and you will still always pay for what you get. You always pay for what you get. It's the constants: death, taxes, and retribution.

Now, ostensibly speaking of course, my stomach was in a rage because I ate somethig foul (I am blaming the Chili I accidentally left out over night.) But it isn't really about the Chili. I mean, it is...but it isn't. You see, it is only about the Chili in that said Chili just happens to be the vessel that Karma chose to ride down my esophagus to my tailpipe and plant its infectious seed. What it is really about is payback for all of the awful, awful things I have done to my tummy the last 9 years or so, with the equivalent of a wrist-slap in return. I deserved it. I earned it.

So I spent Wedensday night until this Tuesday feeling like that. I tried to drink Friday (awful idea) and work Monday (bad idea) and went to a Doctor Wedensday morning. Just yesterday I ate my first whole meal in a week. Diagnosis: colonitis. Sounds like a minor inflamation right? No big deal. I am telling you: I was at death's fuckin' door. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemies. So the Doctor gave me these horse-sized pills, "No problem, just take two of these a day," he shrugs and sent me on my merry way. And as I am on my way out the door, this: "Oh, and Geoffrey. No drinking and just bland food for the next five days. Pasta, baby food. That sort of thing. But NO drinking."

Call Me Samsa, George Samsa.

Back the fuck up. Is he kidding me?! Look, I don't mean to whine. Five days of pasta, and bread and shit is fine. I mean cancer patients have to eat yogurt and rice for the reast of their lives. I should complain. Five days without drinking? Small price to pay for an iron-clad stomach that will be ready to rage for nine more years until my next torturous collapse. But, Doc. What the christ! Bland food, and no drinking?! What do you think I have been doing for the last week? Ripping down Mad Doggs and eating Kung Pao Chicken? I could have given me that advice. So essentially, my wife's health insurance company just wrote you a check for a couple hunny just so you could write a prescription for apple-sized immodium?! I cry foul.

It's my fault, really, for being such a man. Three times in the past week I could have bitten the bullet and gone to see this crotchety old pill-man, but I balked because I figured it would just go away with bland food and lots of Pepto. And it teased me, and teased me, but it stuck around. Right Until Wednesday, when I finally caved in, went and got these monster pills. And so I took the first dose. And guess what. It went away. One friggin' dose. But I had 9 of them left. And I "have to go through the cycle or it could mutate." So now? Baby food and seltzer for four more days. Do the math: I went to the doc on Wedensday. 5 days later is Monday. Great, I can have Coors and Salsa Picante for the friggin' Eagles Panthers game. Awesome. See that timing? Of course I had to try and work on Monday and let the Dr. appt. wait until Wedensday. Karma, kids. But more weekend. What about my weekend?!

I don't mean this in an "I need to drink to have fun" kind of way. I don't know that the truth is far from that, but universe is larger than barrooms and packed fridges, I think. But until something TOTALLY devestating like this happens, you really don't appreciate how much of a detour this puts on your weekend journey. I mean, I think we can all recall a certain post I wrote about that feeling I typically get on Fridays (hey what ever happened to those two dudes, anyway?) So of course, I have that feeling now, and, of course, my burning love for Friday Afternoon beer delight will go unrequited. So what do I do? Well, there's this great show at the Whitney ending today (see the bottom, ignore that weird hippy chick.) I could go see that. And the new Bond is out. I want to see that. Or I could read, or write. I could go to a coffee place and read or write. No I cant. Coffee's out. I could sip a water and read, or write. Ok, no reading or writing. So I will probably got to the Whitney. Or the movies.

Then there is tomorrow: annual pierogie making day at the old homestead. This is usually a fine enough event. It is something that has to be done (fueling the fire of heritage, and all) but, to be quite honest, it involves 6-10 hours of not only co-existing, but also collaborating with my mother. In other words, it is a project best supplemented by a steady flow of cold beers. No such luck. I give us two hours before the flour is flying, the pots are boiling over, my mother is crying and I am testing the validity of this warning label that says "mixing with alcohol may cause dizziness, vomitting, and death."

Saturday night? Rutgers/WVU. Great game to watch with a few brews. This time of year the better liquor stores start carrying Sam Smith's Celebration. Fantastic, right?! Not for me. I will be miserably watching the Knights BCS hopes smolder in the rain. Sober as a priest. Great!

The list goes on like this. And it gets worse. Believe it or not it gets worse!! I know, friends, I'm putting together a message board like Barbaro's where we can all commiserate over my sad lot in life, this unfair hand I've been dealt. So Monday, obviously, I am not going to celebrate my two weeks (10 days at that point) of sobreity by ripping through a gallon of Popov. It's Monday. I can't roll like that anymore. Tuesday is out. I have to be at work early Wednesday morning. Wednesday night would be great! Except, I told someone I'd give them a ride to the airport at 10! Thursday night. A round 13 days of Sobriety. Fantastic. Oh, I have to meet my parents for dinner in Gladstone. Fortunately, not into drinking and driving...anymore. Well that settles it. Friday it is. TWO friggin' weeks of sobriety, but next Friday, I am going to sit on my ass and just chug beers. What's on? NBA? College Football? College Basketball? Who cares. I'll drink and watch hockey. Oh, but there's this. My wonderful wife, as part of her new job, has a few "perks" which are almost always awesome. One of them she gets to use the Dow Jones luxury box at MSG to entertain clients. And next Friday some clients have asked for entertaining. So she asked me to join. Awesome. Free booze? great? Free food? Fantastic! Whose playing, Knicks? Rangers? Indoor Lacrosse?! A concert? Who? My Morning Jacket?! Stones? Almans?! U2? U2 is ok, I can even handle U2! UHm...what? What'd you say? I could have sworn you just said DASHBOARD CONFESSIONAL!?!! Are you kidding me? Dashboard Confessional? For serious? UGHH. I'd rather see The Dandy Warhols. Well at least there is the free cheeseburgers. And then, of course, me and beer. United at last. After two LONG weeks.


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