I have a feeling several of you were enticed to read this blog because of the title and were hoping for some racy photos. Well look no further than to the left. You’re welcome.
And now, back to the story about my hospital antics after the recent attack on my life (by my gallbladder). If you don’t know what I’m talking about, I suggest you read my blog more regularly. You should be ashamed of yourself.
When I last left off, I had just been told I had a roommate in the hospital, and was unfairly judged by the nurses, who thought I was a stripper. I decided since the nurses clearly didn’t understand sarcasm, I needed an ally in my corner. I decided to approach the roommate who was literally in my corner.
When I finally spoke to her, I introduced myself and told her I was there for gallbladder surgery. She told me her name and I was disappointed it wasn’t Rizzo. However, I decided to call her by that name anyway. After all, she wasn’t my boss, applesauce.
She said she was also in for gallbladder issues, but had already undergone surgery. Her next words solidified our friendship for ages to come. “You know, if you have to fart while you’re in here, just do it. It won’t bother me at all and you really should fart if you need to. You will feel better.” I loved her immediately. It was like we were soul mates. I wanted to ask her if she wore orthopedic shoes and had bifocal lenses, but I didn’t want to be too forward.
I felt like I was in “The Parent Trap” or an episode of “The Brady Bunch” the way we had curtains dividing the rooms. I considered ringing for a nurse and asking to borrow either a magic marker or duct tape so I could delineate a line down the center of the room to divide up our space. But since the nurses were convinced I was a jaundiced low class stripper who was too good to pee in a hat, I didn’t dare ask for any favors. We didn’t need the dividers anyway. We were soul mates, after all.
Our beds were diagonal from each other and when we pulled the privacy curtains open, we could see each other perfectly. Why would we want privacy curtains? We were both without undergarments and we’d already established it was a free-for-all farting zone. The need for privacy left with our underwear.
It was kind of fun having a roommate. I don’t have a sister, so I don’t know what it’s like to share a room. (However, I have a brother who is ridiculously fashionable and can work miracles with an iron and stubborn wrinkles.) Since I’ve never had a sister, I never experienced sharing a room and staying up all night giggling and talking. I realize being hyped up on pain killers and anti-nausea medication probably isn’t how most sisters bond while growing up, but I was embracing the experience. (However, I’m almost confident this is why the Jenner sisters are so close.)
Since we both had the same type of surgery, we were prevented from eating for several hours, even after the surgery was completed. As you know, keeping me from food for more than 30 minutes is dangerous, so keeping me from eating for several hours is life threatening (for the person withholding the food…not for me. I’ve got plenty of extra body fat to live for days.)
When the time came for us to eat, we poured over the hospital menu together and discussed how many things we would order. We agreed 5 items each was a good start. After all, we wanted to ease our way back into things slowly. We called the nurse and told her our orders. Since she didn’t bring a pad and paper and couldn’t remember everything we ordered, she had to step out to grab something with which to write. We couldn’t contain our excitement.
And just like that, our hopes and dreams were dashed. The nurse, who obviously hated us and wanted to kill our dreams, returned and said we couldn’t order any of the items but the only thing we were allowed to have was Jell-o. Seriously?! Jell-o? Like “Bill Cosby wearing a horribly ugly sweater and turtleneck while talking like a robot” Jell-o? That kind of Jell-o? Surely there was a mistake.
Nope. No mistake. We were relegated to eat nothing but Jell-o. Did Rizzo and I let this get us down? No. (Probably because we were too hyped up on pain meds and were sidetracked counting all the unicorns floating around the room.)
So instead of complaining, we decided to take it in stride. We each ordered a Jell-o and asked that it be put in fancy bowls to make us feel important (and because that’s how it’s served in the commercials, and if it’s good enough for Bill Cosby that way, it’s good enough for us.)
We anxiously awaited the delivery of our Jell-o. When it arrived, much to our horror, we discovered it was orange Jell-o, which is clearly the bottom of the barrel when it comes to Jell-o flavors. They were trying to send us a message. It was like the severed horse head in the bed, or the dirty sock on the doorknob.
We knew what the message meant, but we weren’t going to let them get to us. We were the Grease Girls after all. (I went ahead and gave us that nickname without telling Rizzo. I didn’t want her to not like it and think I was lame.) We dug into the orange Jell-o as if it was our favorite flavor to show we weren’t phased, but also because we hadn’t eaten in 18 hours.
And then something amazing happened. The orange Jell-o was delicious. I’m not sure if it was the fancy plastic bowl it was served in, or the plastic sporks used to shovel it into our mouths, but somehow, it was perfection. Between bites, we asked the nurse what the delicious flavor of Jell-o was, as it was clearly a special blend only available to VIPs.
“It’s orange Jell-o,” was the nurse’s monotone response.
Could it be? Was it true that we were just eating normal orange Jell-o? No, it was far too delicious to be regular Jell-o. Whatever it was, we didn’t care. After we scarfed down the servings, we promptly asked for more. The nurse asked which flavor we wanted for our second helping, and we nearly squealed with excitement, although it could have been pain. Pain may be the more logical reason here for the squealing.
We couldn’t believe we had our choice of flavors. We both decided we wanted to try everyone’s favorite flavor of Jell-o….red. Yes, red is a flavor. Do you know what flavor red Jell-o is? Strawberry? Cherry? Raspberry? Yeah, we didn’t know either, so we settled on calling the flavor red. Don’t judge.
And as quickly as our hopes were raised, they were dashed again by Nurse Sassy Pants, who told us we couldn’t have red Jell-o. There it was again…the nurse trying to keep the Grease Girls down. I asked why red Jell-o was off limits. Perhaps I could slip her a five-spot and change her mind.
Unfortunately, Nurse Sassy Pants wasn’t open to bribery (or humor) and said we couldn’t have red Jell-o because if we threw up, it would be hard to tell if we were throwing up blood or just red Jell-o. I wanted to be offended that she would think we would gorge ourselves on gelatin until we puked, but I knew the facts. She wasn’t out of line.
Red Jell-o then became more appealing than ever. It was like the forbidden fruit….which in this case, was gelatin with red food coloring. From that moment on, we vowed that if we ever got out of that place, we would only eat red Jello as a sign of solidarity. Until then, we were going to eat the crap out of every other color of Jell-o.
And ate we did. We decided to throw ourselves a Jell-o party at the stroke of midnight. I cannot emphasize enough how true this story really is. We asked the nurses to deliver several servings of various Jello flavors to our room promptly at midnight so we could have a Jell-o par-tay. Don’t get me wrong, we weren’t throwing the stereotypical female Jell-o party where partially clothed women wrestled in pools of Jell-o. We would never waste Jell-o that way.
Rather, we were in hospital gowns that opened in the back, and one of us (me) was catheterized. It wasn’t a sexy kind of party. It was more shameful than anything else.
The nurses started bringing us extra cups of Jell-o just as the clock struck midnight. I’m really not kidding about this. One nurse came in a little before midnight and brought us her offering. She said she set a reminder for herself and didn’t want to be late, so she brought it early. Clearly she knew the Grease Girls were not messing around about Jell-o delivery. At least she got the message.
The other nurses also brought us cups of varying flavors, although I suspect it wasn’t so much to fill our needs as it was to keep us from paging constantly for refills. We weren’t embarrassed though. Jell-o was our only vice in the hospital aside from farting, but we had to do the latter to survive (BECAUSE WE JUST HAD ABDOMINAL SURGERY, A-HOLES!)
We binged on Jell-o for what seemed like a lifetime, but what was more likely about 15 minutes. After all, we were on lots of pain meds and our stomachs were full of air from surgery. We didn’t have a ton of room to store the Jell-o.
After we gorged ourselves, we both drifted blissfully off to a drug and gelatin induced sleep. I can’t speak for Rizzo, but that night I dreamed of red Jell-o, and it tasted better than ever. And Big Foot. I also dreamed of Big Foot, but that part wasn’t nearly as delicious.