Insane Jealousy and a Note About My Bum

So here it is, Saturday night. The girls and I were elbow-deep in flour, making homemade pizza. I heard my husband's work phone ring in the other room. I knew what that meant. He would not be participating in our raucous pizza party, because he would have to go in to work.
Sure enough, several minutes later, he came strolling into the kitchen. Barely able to suppress a squeal, he announced that he had to go in to work. This meant for him that he would not have to help with bathtime, bedtime, etc. And he was going to make overtime. Which was good news for both of us.

A drive-by shooting happened earlier in the day and was just now being reported. I'm guessing because the victims had to clean all of the contraband out of their own house before the cops came over to take the report. Call me a cynic, but that's usually the case. Most times when you make a habit of minding your own business, people don't come and spray your house with bullets. This is not say that I don't have compassion. I feel compassion for the poor little kids who live in the house, have done absolutely nothing to anyone, and yet have to endure the terror of having someone shoot at your house. Hubby told me about one shooting he worked where a baby actually had drywall dust on him because the bullet went through his bedroom wall and came THAT close to hitting him. But I digress. Again. I do that quite a bit, I know.

Anyway! I'm insanely jealous that my bastard husband (he's not really a bastard) gets to not only get out of the house, but go and work a drive-by shooting. Did I mention that I miss my job?

I remember the days when I would get stuck late on a juicy call. I lamented the fact that I would not see the girls (sometimes I didn't see them for a day or so), but it was so goddamn FUN to work a good case! Ahhhh, the good old days. Are over.

I'm going to take a page out of Katie Couric's book here for a moment. Remember when she televised her colonoscopy? Well, I had a colonoscopy on Friday. And, while I did not have my camera crew accompany me, and I am NOT going to post pictures of my colon on this blog (although I'm sure it's a perfectly lovely colon), let me just say, hats off to the nurses who work in the GI Lab.

I'll tell you why.

I woke up from the anesthetic to the sound of mortar rounds going off all around me. Okay, they weren't mortar rounds. Those sounds were emanating from the colons of my fellow colonoscopeers. I just made that word up, but it sounds good, doesn't it?

Because I have a ridiculously juvenile sense of humor and because I was groggy from the sedative (but mostly because of my juvenile sense of humor), I began to laugh. A nurse saw me and said, brightly, "That's just how it is around here!"

Then I had the horrifying realization that I probably squeezed off a few rounds of my own before waking up.

The prep for this unpleasant little Roto-rooting was the worst part. I had to down two Fleet bombs in four hours. Which meant that I spent the next four hours committing pooicide. I had to lock the girls out of the bathroom because they were insistent on holding my hand. It was a sweet sentiment, but I was thinking of them, really. I didn't want any casualties.

By about 11 at night, my rear-end was so battered that I actually dug out some stuff they gave me after I had G that basically numbs your rear.

Be honest, are you sorry that you read this whole post? I just wanted to educate y'all in case you ever have to have one.