Of Snakes and Surgery

A number of people have inquired how the surgery went, and I must say in the end it went smashingly. I feel like a brand spankin' new person - one who can smell, taste, and go for a walk without getting winded. Who knew what a difference one nostril would make? Sadly though, now that I have my tastebuds back in full working order I can no longer eat my food "thai hot" and I sometimes seemed to have super smelling abilities forcing me to cry out "My god, what IS that stench?" to which everyone else looks at me blankly.

Though the end results were good, the surgery itself was not the least fun. It started out well enough with them slipping an IV in my arm and me being out two seconds later. I had forgotten that it's the waking up that sucks. The first thing I remember post surgery is that I was being wheeled into a room (known as the recovery room) and that the left side of my head felt lighter, hollow almost. And also that my right foot was ice cold because, somehow, I had lost one of the little surgical socks during the surgery. It is a special gift I have that I can lose things even while unconscious.

The next two sensations to wash over me simultaneously were 1) pain and 2) nausea. The recovery room should really be called "the room where people writhe in pain and then vomit." The pain was not in my nose or head as expected, but in my throat. It felt like someone had run a rotor rooter down my lovely esophagus.

A fuzzy nurse then drifted into view - fuzzy because I was not allowed to wear my glasses or contacts. "On a scale of one to ten what's the pain like?" she asked me. I considered this question rather philosophically in my blearly, groggy state: I did not have a limb amputated, I thought, and they didn't crack my chest or anything. Therefore I would be a total wuss if I said ten, though I'm going to put it at the top of my personal top five painful experiences.

"Seven" I finally croaked. Fuzzy nurse then pumped morphine into my IV. "We're going to give you something for the nausea" she said, and put something else into my IV. Anti-nausea medication never works for me - all it does is make me more groggy.

(OK, warning it gets a bit gross from this point forward)

When nurse came back I informed her that I had to vomit. "That's good" she said. "You've got a lot of blood in your stomach and it's better if you get it out." Her statement grossed me out and I promptly vomited into a small kidney shaped dish she provided.

And then I filled up the kidney shaped dish.

Another nurse, who was in fact the largest scariest looking african-american man I have ever seen in person (albeit without my visual aids) appeared with reinforcements of another kidney shaped dish. Though he looked like a scary bouncer, he held me gently and then even more delicately cleaned me up with a damp towel after I had proceeded to get blood everywhere. As my sister put it, he was like the guy from The Green Mile. He is my favorite nurse ever.

The female nurse asked me again what my pain level was, and since it hadn't decreased in the least I said "Seven" again and then she gave me more morphine and more anti-nausea drugs. She then brought me some crackers and water to eat so I could take some vicodin. I should have warned her that this was a bad plan, but I dutifully ate the crackers, took the vicodin, and then promptly threw it all up about 15 minutes later.

A bit later I was moved to a chair where more anti-nausea medication was pumped into my IV. My mother appeared and a different nurse began giving us the post surgery instructions. The anti-nausea meds made me so groggy I can remember swaying back and forth in my chair unable to process any instruction. A few moment later I remember shouting at the nurse "Have to vomit" and she helped me to the restroom because I couldn't really stand up. I was so groggy I thought I might pass out.

I think after I returned that the nurse taped a gauze mustache to my face to catch all the "drainage." I was then discharged from the surgical center and wheeled to my parent's van and we began the 45 minute trek home. I passed out in the van only to awaken at the Walgreen's drive-through. My mom was saying we should wait for the scrips to get filled and I shouted "No, home now!" because I could feel the nausea rising.

My Mom drove away reluctantly and when we finally got to the house, she lingered at the driveway sorting the mail and fiddling with our gate and what not. "Hurry" I shouted because I wanted to vomit in our own gleaming porcelain goddess. My mother did not understand the urgency so I was finally forced to get out of the car and leave the rest of the crackers on our driveway.

The next several days were spent in a semi-conscious state punctuated by the taking of medication and the changing of the gauze mustache. That pretty much covers the excitement of surgery. However, you may wonder, what of the snake?

Well, 4 days after the surgery it was mother's day and we ventured from the house for brunch nearby in celebration. I generally had the energy for one small activity a day before returning to bed. When we got back to the house, I went up to my room and noticed what looked like a ribbon on the floor of my bathroom.

On closer inspection, it was a very small snake. My mother is afraid of snakes the way I am afraid of cockroaches. We are very much like Indiana Jones and his father in this way. Knowing my mom would completely freak out and ruin her mother's day I called my dad (who was puttering around outside) on his cell phone and informed him of the snake.

"What do you recommend we do?" he asked.
"How about bring a stick and a paper bag up here and I'll wait here and watch it so it doesn't get away."
"Good plan. I'll bring my putter."

When dad arrived he promptly squished the snake and did not heard it into the bag as I had planned. The snake didn't move and we concluded that it was already dead. How and why, was a complete mystery. Dad kept muttering "I don't like the looks of this at all" meaning he thought it was poisonous. We definitely didn't dare tell my mother at that point.

And that was my exciting four days.

My Most Important Post Ever: The Grant Miller Interview

Yesterday I completed my last acts as a law student, and while that is a momentous occasion -and the culmination of three years of hard work- it's nothing to the fact that the one and only Grant Miller has deemed me worthy of an interview. Behold!

Grant Miller: You, along with vikkitikkitavi and Coaster Punchman, were among the first people to link to Grant Miller Media. What are your thoughts of those early days at Grant Miller Media?

Laawyuhr: Grant Miller Media (which back in the early days was known as The Official Site of Grant Miller) was like a shining light in a land of darkness. I saw the light and the light was good.

Also, you promised me a pony.

GM: You have a legal background. Why does America need more attorneys?

L: Because the terrorists hate our freedom.

GM: What do you have against chick flicks?

L: I am morally opposed to films where chicks un-ironically sing into a hairbrush to a song like “It’s raining men” or “RESPECT.” Or the lead(s) does something wacky to take just one more chance on love! Wacky!

But I still have a uterus, so I am required to like a certain percentage of chick flicks, although I like explosions just as much. I count among chick-flicks I like: The Princess Bride, Strictly Ballroom, and the A&E Pride and Prejudice (Keira Knightly can suck it) because Colin Firth in period dress makes me feel all swoony.

GM: You're given an endless supply of money. What's the first stupid infomercial product you would buy and why?

L: Oh my god, how can I choose?! Will it be Jonathan Antin’s worthless hair products? Will it be the Hercules hook? The

Forearm forklift?

Ah, I think it would have to be the Pancake Puff Pan! Haven't you ever had the compulsion to make tiny pancakes that could then be infused with a creamy center(using the "filing injector")? No? Well, clearly you don't smoke weed. Neither do I, yet I still have the compusion to make tiny, delicious pancakes with an assortment of filings. Mmmm. Your imagination is your only limitation!

My favorite part is that the kit comes with FREE "turning sticks" which are known in the rest of the world as "bamboo skewers".

GM: Why should people read your blog?

L: Because if you don't I'll be forced to use MySpace or Facebook, and we all know that's a slippery slope away from writing about relationships and using happy face/sad face to let you know my complex moods.

______________________________________________
P.S. I'll be on brief hiatus for the next week as I'll be getting the nose fetus removed.

What Have We Wrought In Thy Name, O Lord?

Remember when religion was a great source of inspiration, and that inspiration became great art?

For example, Michelangelo's "Creation of Man" from the Sistine Chapel.

Or how about John Donne's Meditation XVII, known for the following passage:

No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were: any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee.

Or Beethoven's 9th Symphony (Ode to Joy)?



Oh Lord, how far we have fallen. Look on these works, ye mighty, and despair! Because now there's this:
















where Jesus looks like a lost member of Alabama. All that's missing from this picture is a jug with three "X's" on it.

Oh, and then there's "Footprints"














which I think is one of the world's greatest insults to poetry.

Once on vacation, my family was staying in a place that had the poem framed on the wall. My sister treated us all one evening by reading it aloud. However, when she got to the portion about "I don't understand why in times when I needed you most, you should leave me" she added for Jesus "Uh, I had to go to the bathroom."

Sadly, it was a vast improvement.


But now, O Lord, there is this, by far the greatest travesty of all: Christmeliscious.



Was there ever a clearer case of using the Lord's name in vain? Oh we are all doomed. DOOMED. It's bad enough that the original song has more in common with a spelling bee than a hymn - most of the lyrics are merely spelled out rather than the artist taking the time to write actual words (this is generally known as cheating). But the original tuneless, untalented performance suffers even more through the vast number of tuneless, untalented children.

Oh Lord, where are thy smiting thunderbolts?!

Birthday Shout Out To My Sis

Happy Birthday sis!

She's 25 today which, as she pointed out, is halfway to 50. And it's certainly been a big year, what with being jailed in Lithuania and what not.

Once, Twice, Three Times A Lady Clown

Somedays you laugh at the clown, and then somedays you are the clown. Last Friday I was the clown.

Last Friday Tiny, myself, and our supervising attorney had a meeting in Baton Rouge. As good environmentalist, we were carpooling. Tiny had offered to pick me up at quarter 'till 8, and then pick up our supervising attorney at 8. We had done this once before, so we were all set to go.

And then on Friday morning I awoke -- at 8:04. Shit. I immediately sat up and began cursing. My alarm clock was blinking, indicating there must have been a power blip that de-set my alarm. I found my cell phone in the next room where five voicemails and 2 text messages were waiting. Shit.

I immediately called Tiny: "Oh my god, have you left for Baton Rouge yet? "
"No," she said "I'm in front of your house."
"Ok, I will be downstairs in five minutes I swear." I turned around and promptly stubbed my ingrown toenail which responded by bleeding. I limped into the bathroom, swaddled my foot in toilet paper and brushed my teeth. I grabbed my shirt and tossed it in the dryer to get most of the wrinkles out -- I had intended to get up early enough to iron it, but it was far too late for that now.

I jumped into my pants and shoved my mummy foot into my heels. I put on my gold loop earrings because nothing camoflages that fact that you got dressed in five minutes better than accessories. I grabbed my shirt from the dryer and managed to button it correctly, then my jacket and sprinted out the door.

We picked up our supervising attorney at 8:30 - I apologized profusely and couldn't look him in the eye. Fortunately, Tiny drives at warp speed and we made it on time to Baton Rouge. We parked and headed into the building, and I noticed that my now bloody toilet paper was making a break from my shoe. I wiggled my toes and managed to stuff it back down out of sight.

The meeting began and I relaxed as I didn't have all that much to contribute. And about an hour into the meeting I noticed that my fly was down. All the way. Hello underpants.

Shit.

I realized that I had greeted some people from my seat as they were standing above me. I'm now quite certain they saw my underwear. All that's left to do is to recitfy the situation without letting on that one has realized that one has made a complete fool of one's self.

As discretely as possible, I scooted my chair under the table and, using one hand, attempted to zip my fly. No good. I brough in reinforcements with the other arm, but these pants don't zip well unless I'm standing. I got the zipper up about half way and then it stuck.

At this time my name tag, a sticky label provided by building security, was disloged by my attempts to zip my fly. It fluttered to the ground by my supervising attorney. I would have had to reach across his lap to retrieve it, so I just let it be. He looked down, thinking it was his name tag that had fallen off, and then slapped it onto his chest. Now my nametag, that also had my picture on it, was gazing out from my supervising attorney's chest.

I finally asked a question of the group about the timeline of events and the room broke up into laughter. Apparently student attorneys don't inquire about when things will be done. Lazy bastards.

A few minutes later my supervising attorney realized that he was wearing my nametag, and peeled it off and handed it to me. The meeting finally ended and our host bolted off to lead us out, while our supervising attorney lingered to chat. I hoped to get out as quickly as possible so that I could adjust my pants in private. By which time it completely wouldn't matter.

Sometimes I wonder what will be the biggest detriment to my future career: my less than stellar grades or the fact that I am a complete clown.

A Theme Seems to Be Emerging

I'm sure everyone has heard of Fred Phelps at this point, right? No? Well, he's the guy who's so crazy conservative that even Fox News thinks he's totally insane. He's the one who pickets the funerals of service men because America is a country of "fag-enablers".

As head lady fag-enabler, I present to you this little clip where some Aussie's have a good time with Phelps and his followers. Enjoy. (Probably not work appropriate)



Sadly, we never do get to see his tush.