Clouds Of Vicodin

I woke up with the flu the day after Christmas, managed a modest recovery by Thursday, woke engulfed by yellow clouds of Cedar pollen two days later, considered taking a knife to my throbbing head by Sunday evening, took my first clear breath around two in the morning on Tuesday, caught a grimy cold by nine that evening.

My lower back went out Saturday morning, an ancient enemy armed with malevolent intentions, leaving me prone on the couch with a couple of pillows jammed under my knees and copious amounts of snot draining down the back of my throat.

My eight-day drug regime has predominately consisted of the generic drugstore variety; nyquil, decongestants, antihistamines, cough syrup, aspirin, vicks. Today I kicked it up a notch with a modest amount of vicodin, the modern-day version of mother’s little helper. What a difference a script makes! I spent two hours shopping for birthday gifts and a grand dinner, cleaned the house (no small task after many days of gross neglect), herded boys after school, prepped the meal, wrapped presents and found myself singing as I tucked clean sheets on the bed.

My hair is gorgeous, legs are shaved, the make-up is beautiful and these gorgeous peep-toe stiletto heels feel like they were meant to be worn forever.

It’s probably a good thing there are only a couple of these stale pills leftover in my old prescription bottle. I could get used to feeling this extraordinarily wonderful every day of my life.

Since Canadian humor seems a tad hit or miss for the conservative mind, here’s one by Mr. Fish that might get your smile on. I found it in my Harper’s magazine subscription, so the source is skankily suspect from an ideological perspective, but still good from a slap Obama in the face point of view.