That Time When Advil Became My Best Friend

Last night, I took an Advil.

For a hangnail.

And then I repeated that treatment plan for pain again this morning.

That should tell you how my day has been.  And really?  The very next time someone tells me, “Oh, so-and-so is such a drama queen, she cries over a hangnail like it’s a botched amputation with a rusty bandsaw,” I’m going to stand up and DEFEND so-and-so.

It all started about four days ago, when I noticed that the pinky finger on my left hand had a hangnail.  Being well-trained enough in the medical field of hangnails, mosquito bites and insomnia to be called DOCTOR Jedi, I immediately set to treating myself.  I gave myself an injection of morphine in the leg, right before I grasped the hangnail with a pair of fingernail clippers…

… and accidentally cut it in half.

The tail of the hangnail, which was still connected to my pinky, was then so tiny, it could no longer be seen without an electron microscope.  I just followed the cowboy way of doing things, as I declared, “I’ll rub some dirt on it and get back in the game.”  It’s how the West was won, y’all.  John Wayne was never slowed down by a nail with attitude on his left hand, and neither am I.

Or rather, neither WAS I, until last night, when I realized that my tiniest little finger was red and swollen and sore.  Oh my word at all THE SORE!  It’s what happens when the surgeon doesn’t get all the shrapnel out the first time.  So, I got out the bottle of whiskey and bit down on a stick.  And then, people, I went after the tail end of that little hangnail, and I THINK the surgery was successful.  All I can be sure about is that I was extremely glad the offended area was on my left hand, because I am a right-handed surgeon.

I also had to use my reading glasses for surgery, because I am over forty, and my eye doctor assures me that this is the time in a girl’s life when her vision changes.  He actually encouraged me to buy cheap reading glasses from the drugstore, but I didn’t follow his advice.  If I had to have them, I wanted them to be cute and sassy and dressed up with rhinestones, so mine are from the boutique.  They make me look extremely smart, and exactly like someone who has the entire Dewey Decimal System memorized.

After surgery last night, I wanted to give the patient some antibiotics, but I’ve had my license for prescribing medications revoked.  This was a sad turn of events, because I really needed some nerve pills this week for Thing 2’s birthday karaoke machine, because AMPLIFIED VOICE doesn’t do the machine justice.  Thing 2’s singing can now be classified as a sonic boom.  So, with no penicillin, I just did the next best thing.  I used some of my DoTerra Oregano Oil.

We all know that Oregano Oil kills staph and foot fungus; its natural antibiotic properties were sure to do the trick on my tiny finger.  But?  Do y’all know what Oregano Oil actually FEELS like on a fresh surgical site, when the surgeon fails to tone it down with some fractionated coconut oil?  It feels like the fire of seventy thousand suns and sixteen million biting fire ants, right before the lit can of gasoline explodes on top of it all.

Full-on labor has nothing on me pouring Oregano Oil into a gaping surgical wound.

People, I had to lie down on the sofa and do some Lamaze breathing.  I wanted to go out to the waiting room and tell the family that things had taken a turn for the worse in the OR, but then I remembered that Thing 2 was sound asleep, Hubs was at work, and the boy had his headphones in, diligently working on his geometry homework.

There was no one to tell.  No one was there to cry real tears over the fact that I was slipping away from all the dang burning.

So, I took an Advil.  Because hangnails are real, and they hurt, especially when you pour gasoline on them and strike a match.

I’m happy to tell y’all that my emergency surgery on the battlefield was a success, and I’m going to be able to keep my pinky finger after all.



Hubs worked all night last night.  It’s what IT guys do when they need an entire office to be TOTALLY OFF OF the computers and phones, so that IT can rewire them / install them / burn them to the ground.  At 6:00 last night, as every employee of this client exited the office building, Hubs and his team went in.  They were exactly like a Black Ops Squad, minus the ear pieces for communication, because Hubs won’t spend the extra money on those.  But matching black stocking hats?  Bingo.

Hubs told me last night that his mission to reinstall a phone system for this client shouldn’t take that long.  SHOULDN’T TAKE THAT LONG is code in the world of Black Ops for THIS IS GONNA LAST TWENTY-TWO STRAIGHT HOURS AND THERE MAY BE CASUALTIES.

Hubs came home at 5:15 this morning.

Do you know how I sleep while Hubs is away?

I sleep NOT.  AT.  ALL.

I was up at 4:00 this morning, doing everything I could to insure that the messy bun atop my head made me look exactly like I had slept in a Dumpster and had my last shower at a campground four states over.  I don’t know what it is about the messy bun, but I cannot perfect the art of it.  There’s the messy bun, and then there’s the MESSY BUN, which alerts everyone to I DON’T PUT MUCH EFFORT INTO MY APPEARANCE, AND I SPEND MY FREE TIME CUSSING AT TALK SHOW HOSTS ON THE TV.  I appear to fall into the latter category.

After I had dropped Thing 2 off at preschool this morning, I took my MESSY BUN and all of our dirty laundry into the laundromat, because YES.  The answer is YES, YES, YES.  My washing machine is STILL broken, and I am going to need counseling for the excruciating level of PTSD I have from its sudden death three entire weeks ago.  Hubs insists that it’s all just a broken belt on the agitator, but Hubs would actually have to quit installing phone systems all night long, in order to end up with ten free moments to tear it apart.  I should just call a repairman, but Hubs is determined that HE will fix it with his own tools and a Jedi mind trick.

So, into the laundromat I went this morning.


I will assure you that it is MUCH EASIER to be in the laundromat with three loads of dirty clothes when you don’t have your preschooler with you.  It really reduces the amount of times you are forced to utter the phrases GET OUT OF THAT WASHING MACHINE, GET OFF THE FILTHY FLOOR and NO!  WE ARE NOT BUYING JUNK OUT OF THE VENDING MACHINE!  It also reduces the embarrassment you have, when your preschooler fails to utilize the filter that separates what he’s thinking from what he’s saying.  For example, last week, while Thing 2 and I were washing clothes together, a man with a very shady appearance came in to do HIS laundry.  I don’t want to judge or stereotype him at all, because — for all I know — he may love his Lord and grandmother to pieces and be a model citizen.  But… his appearance seemed to suggest otherwise, with the neck tattoos and the forehead (YES!  FOREHEAD!) tattoo, and the gauges in his ears that had enlarged his earlobes to a size that a basketball could be passed through.  When he opened the door and walked in last week, Thing 2 gasped, right before he shouted, “Oh, my gosh, Mom!  It’s a BAD GUY!  I will fight him for you!!”

Bless.  His.  Heart.

Our little guy takes the protection of his mama seriously.

This man didn’t say a single word to us, or even look in our direction, so my biggest hope is that he simply didn’t HEAR my shouting four-year-old.  But… on the other hand… SHOUTING FOUR-YEAR-OLD!!  Those creatures are kind of hard NOT to hear.

Since then, I’ve run into the BAD GUY two other times at the laundromat, and he’s always been pleasant as he shuffles his wet clothes between the washing machines and the dryer.  I have zero-point-zero reasons to move his name to the bad guy category.  Apparently, he realizes that my body guard is perfectly willing to take him on in a fist fight, so he has been on his best behavior.

Today, I dumped all of my wet clothes into one of the carts with wheels, and I wheeled it over to the dryers.  I started grabbing the wet laundry and tossing it all up, into the top dryer, which is as tall as I am.  As I bent over the rolling cart to grab another armload of wet items, the upper dryer door started to swing shut.

Which I was completely unaware of…

… until I stood back up to throw my wet clothes in, and clocked my right ear and the entire right side of my head on that door.

People, it hurt so badly, all I could think was, “The bad guy is back, and he didn’t like my little boy’s comment last week, and he’s got a homemade shank, and I’ve taken a  hit!  I HAVE BEEN SHANKED!!!”

I saw the stars.

I felt like I was very possibly beyond the help of Oregano Oil.  I gasped and tried to breathe, and somewhere, in the back of the impeding darkness that was about to overtake me, I remembered that I was AT THE LAUNDROMAT, for crying out loud, and I didn’t want to drop dead THERE.  I clung to the rolling cart, and the handles of the dryers, until approximately four seconds had passed.   That’s how long it took me to realize that I had NOT just endured a mugging with BLUNT FORCE TRAUMA TO THE SKULL,  but that the blunt force trauma was actually because I’d just stood up beneath a swinging dryer door and clocked myself plum dadgum silly.

Which is why I had a second Advil this morning.

People, it is VERY DIFFICULT being me.

Except, I’m sort of a decent surgeon.

Have a great weekend.

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