Of Hospitals, Babies, and a Funeral (All Unrelated)

Holy crap, y'all, this has been quite the weekend. Let's begin at the beginning (a very good place to start, according to The Sound of Music.) On Thursday, Mr. Monkeypants called me all casual-like and said that oh, he was going to the ER. 

WHAT WHAT WHAT?

Yep, he was feeling very poorly, indeed, and was off to the ER. Well I did what any other person in my position would do: I took a Klonopin and panicked, relying on Twitter and texts to find out that, and these are HIS WORDS, Y'ALL: "SHOULD BE DEAD." 

I took another Klonopin. 

Now Mr. M has a chronic issue that is none of anyone's bizniss, but it's totally treatable as long as he takes care of himself. Guess who wasn't taking care of himself!!!!!! So into the hospital he went, and off I went on Friday to make the drive to visit, Klonopin at the ready. I had serious talk with the cosmos the night before, and made many many promises to be a good girl and to stop fucking up and all the other things that one says when a loved one is in the hospital. I also got a HEFTY reality check this weekend about how my parents and friends must have felt when I was in the ICU, and boy oh boy, did I make some amends, yessir I did. LESSON LEARNED. But more on that another time. 

So I went to the hospital, which, according to Yahoo maps was about 15 minutes away from Mr. M's place, which is about and hour and change from MY place, and I had MAPS and DIRECTIONS and NOTHING COULD GO WRONG. 

Three hours later, three stops for directions (one guy had no teeth, and once I went to to the WRONG HOSPITAL,) I made it to Mr. M, whom I found getting on his street clothes with his IV hanging from his arm, snarling, "I am going to have a cigarette." 

This is not the picture I was expecting, but then again all I know from hospitals are ICUs and 24/7 monitoring and ventilators and the like, but again, that's another story. So he should have been dead, but was alive instead, and thank the little baby Jebuddah in his denim diapers for that. So I stayed with him for a few hours, crashed at his place, went back the next day, he got sprung from the hospital, I drove him home with the strict instructions that he was to be on at least 24 hours of bedrest, which of course meant that we went to the laundromat and put together an Ikea bookcase. WHY WOULDN'T WE. 

The Stubborn. We has it. 

So that knocked him out right quick, and he went to bed for the next 12 plus hours, I drove home, crashed RIGHT OUT, and then it was suddenly Monday and I had a a funeral to go to for my cousin. RIP, man. We didn't really know each other, but you were my cousin, so I loved you, and I'm sorry you went before your time. So off to the funeral I went on Monday with the parents, to which I was greeted with comments such as "You clean up good!" in a shocked and amazed tone. Thanks! I took a shower and everything! I didn't even wear a t-shirt that said something stupid on it! GROWNUPNESS. I HAS IT. 

So now it's Monday night and almost time for me to Bachelorette it up, but first, I wanted to give BIG SQUEES AND CONGRATS AND HOORAYS AND JUMPY THINGIES to my dear friend and faithful blog-reader Dr. N, who had A BABY HOLY CRAP and will be getting a "I'm Already a Feminist" onesie from Crazy Auntie Banshee as soon as I have some money. 

So there you have it. A hospital, a funeral, and a baby. All unrelated, except THEY are the reasons I have not been blogging. Oh, and this:

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Till tomorrow, my beloved little squirrels! 


Comments

Of Hospitals, Babies, and a Funeral (All Unrelated) — 3 Comments

  1. Glad to hear that Mr. M. is doing better. Now smack him upside his head for not taking better care of himself in the first place!
    And the kittehs? They are adorable!

  2. Oh, thank you! We already have a huge Rosie the riveter “we can do it!” poster above the changing table. As you can see she is keeping me busy as I have not read any blogs since last week sometime.
    I am glad that Mr. M is ok. Hospitals suck. They are like prisons, or actually worse since they generally lack a weight room and the gowns have much less coverage than prison garb.

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