Sometimes I have trouble keeping track of what giant conglomerate owns the rights to which famous movie character… but if good ol’ Mr. Frankenstein isn’t already roaming the streets of Disney World… on Sunday, he will be. Or should I say she. And by ‘she’ I mean me.
Now, I don’t know what the fuck I did or WHO I pissed off to curse me with some seriously bad juju (we’re talking voodoo dolls and hexes), but clearly I did. I mean, how many idiots do you know that can fuck up their entire back just by turning their head left? Just me? That’s what I thought.
Seven months is a LONG ass time to be sitting around in pain with not a damn soul in the medical community who will listen to you- so when my fuckfaced orthopedist finally relented and sent me on my not-so-merry way to interventional pain management, I was slightly overjoyed.
Why? Well, maybe SOMEONE would finally drug my ass out. Little did I know that the word “interventional” when placed in front of “pain management” meant that they’d rather see me curl up into the fetal position and die before giving me any kind of pain medication (and trust me, I could make that happen).
Ok, I thought, that’s fucking FINE then- stab me with some needles! Singe off my nerve endings! Have me stand on my head and sprinkle me with some organic dust or whatever the fuck it is that you do- or hell, just go ahead and tear that whore of a spine out and give me a new one! JUST DO SOMETHING! That’s what they’re there for, to do SOMETHING about the pain you are clearly experiencing.
What in the world could they give the idiot who’s here because she “turned her head left”? What could they POSSIBLY give someone like that?
An electrical fanny pack.
Yes, you read that right. Starting on Thursday (and I had to bitch to get in that early, and by early I mean 7am early) and for the next 3 months I will be the girl with wires coming out of her back attached to a portable unit i’ll have to either shove in a pocket or hook onto my belt loop like a giant fucking pager (a portable TENS unit to be more specific). This includes the trip to Disney.
Now, during the winter time I could hide this eyesore of plastic and wires, but being that Disney is in sunny Florida and it’s forecast to be 85 degrees out every single day… there’s just no hiding it unless I want to wear a damn turtleneck and be even sweatier than I usually am.
I not only fear staring children who have the same lack of filter that mine do and just say whatever the fuck is on their minds (“What’s wrong with that lady??”), but also electrocuting myself.
Sweat, rain, and electric pulses going through my back? That’s ASKING for trouble. And it’s been made very clear that when it comes to luck I am fresh the fuck out of it. Unless by luck you mean BAD luck, and then you can just call me Bill Gates.
There are many things that I can handle as far as humiliation goes, but some little kid walking up to me and wanting to take pictures with ‘Frankenstein lady’ (because you KNOW after getting shocked when my TENS machine shorts out, my hair will be standing on end) is NOT one of them. The children of Disney should be living in fear. Including my own.
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Cut Yourself some Christmas Slack goo.gl/fb/4WVJe2
My day as a parent isn't complete until I've threatened to sell at least one of my children on the black market. Twice. At least.