Happy Drinking Game Friday! Sorry for the lack of posting on my part this week you guys, my tonsils and I got into another white-trash domestic dispute. The cops were called, I used my shoe as a weapon and had to be restrained. It was a mess. In the end, however, we decided to stay together because sometimes love hurts.
This new bout of the Consumption started Monday when I noticed that my tonsils were hurting slightly more than they usually do when I get sick. I thought nothing of it and moved on with my life. Wednesday morning I got into the office bright and early (cough-fifteen minutes late-cough,) and sat down to write a hilarious and well-written blog post. All of a sudden, I realized that I was producing more saliva than usual and my mouth tasted oddly tangy. But I shrugged it off and moved on. A few minutes later I thought to myself, "Man, my mouth is full of effing spit...and I can feel spit going down the back of my throat at a rapid rate...L0LZ the body is a kooky thing!" And then I coughed into my hand and...well, how do I say this delicately? Oh right! I can't! Blood went gushing everywhere. Everywhere, you guys. Everywhere. It was like that scene in Julie Taymor's Titus when Lavinia's uncle finds her and is all "Why you got twigs for arms?" and she tries to answer and blood dramatically pours out of her mouth (please see below, 50 seconds into the video:)
Except I don't have tree branches for arms. And my tongue hasn't been cut out; my tonsils swelled so much they were bleeding. And Jonathan Ryhs-Meyers didn't rape me. And if he had, it wouldn't be rape, because you can't rape the willing. But besides all of those things, it was exactly like that scene. To the tee.
In all seriousness, I freaked the fuck out because a.) ew blood! and b.) I couldn't breathe because I was choking on all of the blood I was swallowing. I was totally like, welp, this is it. This is how the story of Meghan McBlogger comes to it's bloody end. Alone in my office. At the hand of my tonsils...sounds about right.
Shaking like a little leaf, I got into a cab and asked for it to take me to Georgetown Hospital's ER. Now maybe it's just me, but if someone gets in your cab and asks you to go to the ER, maaayyybeee they're not in the condition to shoot the shit with you. Just maybe. Apparently my driver didn't get that memo. A few minutes into our ride, he glanced back and casually said, "So. How's your day going?" UMM, sir, I'm holding half a roll of Bounty paper towels covered in blood to my mouth with tears coming down my face, how do you think my day is going? But that would have taken too much energy to get out, so I went with a muffled, "I've been better." "So, I see you're wearing a green dress. Didn't anyone tell you St. Patrick's Day was yesterday? Get a calendar, HAHA!" REALLY, SIR?! REALLY??? YOU'RE GOING TO SHTICK WITH ME NOW?! I'm surprised his response to where I wanted to go wasn't, "No. I don't go to the hospital. Not today. .....HAHA! GOTCHA LOLZ!!!!" I swear to the effing good Lord world, just stop shticking with me when I'm on my lunch break or drowning in my own blood in the back of a cab. CHRIST.
I was equally irritated that I had to give a urine sample when I was admitted to the ER. Giving a urine sample has to be the most degrading human experience on the entire planet. First of all, my throat is bleeding, why you need a urine sample is beyond me. And stop asking me if there's a chance I could be pregnant. I'm not pregnant and there's no chance I could be. But if I am pregnant, it's God's, so maybe a priest is in order, not a urine sample. Second, I never have to pee when a doctor needs a urine sample. Which means I have to look another adult in the eye and, like a child, say "I don't have to go pee." I hate it. I have flashbacks to family road trips and my dad telling me to go now because we're not stopping later. After I chugged a few glasses of delicious lukewarm hospital tap water, I had to book it from my bed to the bathroom down the hall—pee cup in hand, wearing my hospital gown and the 6-inch black stilettos I wore to work. And if that isn't the ultimate walk of shame, then I don't know what is.
But we're not done yet! Actually having to pee is just half the battle! The other half is actually peeing into the thimble of a cup they give you. I swear to God, the performance anxiety I feel when giving a urine sample is ridiculous. It just wasn't going to happen. I don't know how men pee in urinals with other guys standing around, because the added pressure of a cup being there was too much for me to handle. I tried everything. I had the water faucet trickling a little bit, I tried splashing the water around, envisioning streams and babbling brooks, I even tried holding one hand under cold water and the other under the hot air blower like I was pranking myself at a slumber party. Nothing. And of course I couldn't stop thinking about the nurses waiting for me, wondering where my "specimen" was, which made everything worse. Finally, after praying, nay, pleading with God to please, please, please let me pee, it was a-go. And by "a-go," I mean it was time for the ultimate test of depth perception and aim that is a female trying to pee into a cup. Which I then had to walk to the nurse's station in my slutty hospital patient Halloween costume. Kill me.
However, the most beautiful thing happened. At one point during my stay, the general bathroom was occupied, so the nurse walked me back to use the staff bathroom. Figuring that it was probably not a one-person stall, I opened the door without knocking. As it turns out, it was a one-person stall, and indeed, one person was already in there. Specifically, my probably gay and definitely hot doctor. Apparently in med school they don't teach you how to lock a bathroom door, so I completely walked in on him mid-piss. I swear to God, we had this micro-second of a moment where we locked eyes and both acknowledged the extreme humanization of what had just occurred. The curtain had been pulled back; the mystery was gone. No longer was this man the almighty doctor who I had bowed down to and peed in cups for, he was just another person taking a leak. Dick in hand. I don't have a dick, but if I did, you can bet it would be in my hand. I'm just like you buddy, and you're just like me. Suddenly I felt a lot less embarassed about peeing in the cup. Man, the Universe has beautiful ways to even itself out.
In the end, it was decided I need to get my tonsils out, but for seriouses this time. Alas, my insurance doesn't cover surgical procedures, so I told them just fix me to the point where I can stay alive until I get hired at my job full time, get full health-care coverage and then I swear I'll totally get my tonsils out, 4realz! A few shots of steroids and penicillin and a nice stay in a relaxing hospital bed under observation later, I was good to go.
So yea, I'm fine. I couldn't go dyin' on you baby, I love you too much. OH! And speaking of dying (poor transition,) the real tragedy this week was Natasha Richardson! WTF?! This is just another reminder that human beings were not meant to slide down mountains on two rickety pieces of wood. How many more beautiful and talented celebrities do we need to lose until we all realize this (RIP Sonny Bono)?? In remembrance of the lovely Natasha Richardson aka Elizabeth James, the coolest mom EVER, I give you the Parent Trap Drinking Game. <3
- A secret handshake is exchanged
- A twin plays a prank
- Someone says the name of a Native American tribe
- A twin cries
- A twin is reunited with a parent
- Hallie (but really Annie) says "dad"
- The vineyard is mentioned
- Martin says "mam"
- Cuppy makes an appearance
- Hallie (but really Annie) lies to Meredith
- Someone is suspicious of the twins
- Marriage is referenced in any way
- And finally when in light of recent events, you inevitably cry your face off during the following scene:
OH GOD IT GETS ME...sniff, sniff. Thanks for reading everyone and I'll see you bright and early Monday morning!