**clears throat** Gimme a beat DJ Jazzy Jeff . . . "OK. Here's the situation. My parents went away on a weeks vacation. And they left the keys to the brand new Porsche. Will they mind? MMmmm. Wellll, of course not!" Ha! I only wish that was my situation. How 'bout another Fresh Prince blast from the past? "Summertime." Anyone? Anyone?
Allright, already! Enuff with the music. Enuff with the movies. And analogies, be damned. Be warned, as today, I'm sick of all the sugar coating. MS sux! So although I'm stuck on my couch - a blue mile away from the nearest shitter - I'm off on a good old-fashined bitch session.
Won't you join me? "Won't you be? Please won't you be? Won't you be my neighbor?" Anyone? C'mon. I know I swore off songs, but I just can't help myself sometimes. I promise though, dear readers, get thru this entry with me and they'll be no singing required. Pinky swear.
And while we're on the subject of swearing - you can call this a fore-warning. I cuss. Don't even pretend you didn't know. And I'm real bad about it when I'm mad. I've said many times before - I am an Orth. So consider your tender sinless eyes blessed I'm using anything but explitives at this point. Hit the Escape key if you can't hack it. Forgive me Jesus! Please! And give me strength to get thru this . . . AMEN!
LAST CHANCE to back out people. I ain't kiddin'! Here it goes: Steroids are the devil! My Aunt June agrees with me. Ever had 'em? If not, avoid the chalky little bastards at all costs. I gotta kick awful sick before I even consider 'em. And even then they're hard to swallow. I've always had trouble taking pills.
I forced down nasty liquids years beyond when I should have been enjoying meds pill form. Remember that pink stuff? Grainy sludge would stick in my teeth like sand. And that thick banana flavored mess - I'll spare you the graphic details on this bad boy. Skip to my Momma. A mastermind, I tell ya, she used to stick pills in grilled cheese sandwiches and my all-time favorite 3-Musketeer bars. Genius.
Other tricks up her sleeve were having us hold our noses. She'd say, "If you can't smell it you can't taste it." Wellllll, don't know as if I agree with this one, Mom, but you get an 'A' for effort. Then there was the crushing of the pills. Did we mix that with other meds liquid form or Mt. Dew, our drink of choice at the time? I forget. Prolly best that way. And did you used to blow in our faces? Somewhere or another along the way I picked up that little jewel. And, at least on my two yay-whos it works!
Only Mom and God knows what else she'd hidden meds in. You know what, Mom? Let's keep it that way 'cause I need to try and keep these steroids down. To this day I check my grilled cheese out. Anyways, thank you! Thank you for your creativity and patience. You poor, poor dear. Has there ever been a time in your life you haven't been caring for someone sickly? I hate that for you. And I hate that I was such a big contributor.
I pray you take all you know from caring for me and Dad and start taking better care of yourself. Although we are both of us somewhat stranded in our own little worlds -- I still need my Mommy! Somedays more than others, but always, always - everyday! I love you! Now, enuff of this sappy shit! Back to the bitchin' . . .
StErOiDs! So I'm in the bog, right LABYRINTH fans? Well, I am. For the cinema lacking of you out there I'm pretty frickin' miserable right now. So no! I ain't wearin' no cardigan sweater. Ever! So no matter how many times I recite the opening theme to 'Mr. Rodger's Neighborhood' do not under any circumstances agree to be my neighbor. I'm way too near the depths of Hell to sport a cardigan. Really?! Bare with me whilst I try and explain.
So we all know about the failed LIBERATION, right? I was down after that but quickly lifted as I enjoyed improvements. Yep, improvements even that others besides me and Jason noticed. And my fave Doc from the block contacted me personally via email assuring me I was still on his list and that he remained quite confident upon his testing me he'd find stenosis. He told me he worried many 1st time docs would come up empty handed. And that he hoped it wouldn't discourage the brave patients involved. Alas, Dr. S, I'm still waitin' on ya Baby!
In the mean time a not-for-profit clinic opens it's doors in Atlanta. A 6 hour drive from here. Way closer than NY, San Diego, or ummmm, Poland, Bulgaria, India, etc. And a real bonus was no doctor referral needed. Yippee! Only $550 for a doppler using the Zamboni protocol. Alas, something to tide me over whilst I wait Dr. S's return. No harm in being out $500. And this way I could know with a little more confidence that a costly trip abroad wouldn't be a total waste. A win-win, I'd thought.
Enter the skeptics. They warn of this place not being able to produce a not-for-profit tax exemption blah, blah, blah. And no medical facility licensing? Hmmm . . . It's at this point I begin thinking of walking into some lean-to shanty. I struggle to climb into a greasy old barber's chair. It used to be a glossy kitchen green. Now tattered and torn with bright oranged foam portruding from it, it glowed a more morbid tinge than one could allow themselves to rest upon.
The lighting - dim. And flickering. How would they ever find a vein? Untrained, would they even be able to in a well-lit, stringently sanitized atmosphere? My very healthy imagination does me more harm than good sometimes, ya know? So remember the toothless Fares Avenue car salesman I once wrote of? No? Well ok then enjoy this fresh exacerbated rendition:
Imagine this 50 something balding dude, right? Over weight, but not to the point of it slowing his slithering gait. As a matter of fact, he wears a girdle to mask the gain. You can see every last little stave and seem of it beneath his light brown polyester pants. Pants, I might add that are thinning from wear and about two sizes too small. The lining from the pockets bulge from either hip.
And although both pant legs are short enough to go wading high and dry, one is blatantly longer than the other. One offers a glimpse of his hairless pearly white leg, sans sock. The other, with a frayed hem, thankfully reaches his elasticless khaki sock. And the scuffed penny-loafers he'd squeezed into, wellll, they had seen better days and were in fact missing their pennies.
Let's travel north of the tarnished gold Chevy emblem belt buckle, shall we? His short sleeved button up dress shirt, besides the wrinkles and pit stains hadn't actually been all that sleazy. Sure the collar could have used some straightening. And sure he had completed his look a button, maybe two, off. But, anything fighting to cover the greasy twirled forest beneath - welll, kudos to that shirt, I say. The locks of chest once raven were now graying. And not a lavish, distinguished silver but a dirty yellowed metal. Still with me?
Whatever color consensus we would eventually force ourselves to come to in order to just stop gazing at thiks poor soul, one thing is for sure. His chest hair in no way shape or form even favored the thinning coal black fringe on top. Underneath the two to three long flowing sprigs of black lay his bright red, freckled, sweaty scalp, a rogue white hair scattered here and there. His mishapen ears sported more hair than his head. Poor cuss.
Hairless, toothless face. Huge brown, yellowed bug eyes. The right staring deep into me whilst the others hops and fidgets about elsewhere, possibly tracking the hairy spider setting up shop in the corner. Perhaps he'd been jealous of that blood hungry arachnid. After all, he did have more hair. And way less grease. Have I painted a scary enuff picture yet? Hope so, cause I'm growing bored of it. And I'm nearing tears for this poor sad completely fictional character.
Anyways, he fumbles thru a drawer to pull out an eye patch. Huh? His hands shaking worse than mine he struggles to get the patch in place over his wondering eye. At this, I sighed with relief. Maybe this would be all right. Maybe he'd be all business. Just to be sure, wellll, I still found my self tensing in that chair. With that I began praying. There was no time more than right now that I'd needed things to be not quite like they seemed.
Back to the drawer he dove. This time shoulder deep with both arms. It seemed he wrestled with something in there for hours. Tension grew to despair. Despair to stone-cold fear. I found myself unable to swallow, when alas he arose from his perch with the contents of the dungeon drawer he'd fought so gallantly to obtain. A doppler ultrasound wand? No? With old mis-matched gardening gloves on each hand he presented as if for my approval - a tatoo gun!
And although both apparent antique gun and gloves had been festively colored with earth and blood . . . I sighed in relief. No medical license needed. $500 was way more than I'd paid for my first tatoo, but what the heck? I'd come all this way. "Make it a butterfly, Mister," I'd said. And with a sly smile he replied, "Turquoise one be ok?" Damn. I know, right? Vivid imagination I got there. Maybe I oughtta write a book. Somethin' with car salesmans, tatoo parlors and Oompa Loompas on the run from Freddy Krueger. Book, hell?! That's got the guts of a straight to DVD release. Any renters? Anyone? No? Me either. No worries.
So back to my situation. My bitch fest. Remember? Anyways, Atlanta frowned upon, I had in fact decided to go ahead and give 'er a try. Worst case scenario, I'd come home with a new tat. Now that wouldn't be so bad, would it? Seriously though, before being out over $15,000 or more dollars elsewhere I thought spending $500 to see rather or not my blood flow was jacked up would be worth every penny. So what if the guy was using the pennies to fill his loafers!
And we hadn't had a vacation in a while besides tagging along with Jason to Indy, so we thought we could drag the kiddos with us and find something wheel chair accessible to do. The aqarium perhaps? Heck, a hotel with a pool usually does the trick all by itself. 'Despicable Me' is coming out soon. Maybe we could hold off long enuff on it to see it down south. Perhaps do some geo-caching on the way. Who knows? The sky was the limit.
Or not. Perhaps I was the limit. Ha! What had made me think any other way? I had single-handedly been the limit for quite some time now. Sux. Sux. Sux. We'd like to do this or go here or . . . whatever . . . BUT how? My favorite children's book of all time comes to mind here. Read to me soooo much it literally disintegrated in to a dusty oblivion before puberty even. Then comes marriage and guess who's preggers? Jason goes on a world wide hunt for my fave book so I can read it to my baby. What a jewel, that Jason!
With my Mom's help via reciting of the text from memory and the use of the long arm of the world-wide web, he found it. Hello, Mr. Fed-Ex man! And the rest as they say is history. It begins, "How do we get to the zoo? They've invited us all and you too. It's the zookeeper's party. We mustn't be tardy. But how can we get to the zoo?" (Also recited from memory.)
Anyways, my being very limiting made me think of that precious book. The entire story the kiddos are trying to find the best most suitable, accomodating way to get themselves and their pets to the zoo in time. Any time we set out for somewhere we must talk logistics. The devil's in the details I tell ya. Will she need a cane? A chair? Will she be able to make it inside even if dropped at the door? Are the bathrooms nearby? Etc. etc. and so on . . .
So where was I? Excited about Atlanta. Well, so much for that. My worsening symptoms had something else to say about my becoming a Georgia Peach. Those sleeping bastards had awoke with a vengeance. Grrrrr! My once frosty limbs had gone frigid. Blocks of ice, I tell ya. It's a wonder they don't fail beneath the 200 lbs. I hoist upon them. I envision myself standing from my knees up feasting on a cherry sno-cone I made with the crushed ice that once were my calves, ankles and sexy little nubbin toes. They'd be delicious I tell ya! Wanna taste?
Stomachs churning yet? Mine is. Damn steroids. I'm queasy yet starving. Not a very pleasing combo. And my once zit ridden face with only six of my 'fix-it' pills gone is already beginning to redden. With color yeh, and chubby cheeks and yes more zits ladies and gents. I was blessed thru out puberty with a clear, fair complexion, but boy am I ever payin' for it now. Geesh! Where'd I stash the zit cream?
So from the knees down I present colder and colder. Bizarro, heh? Nurse friends out there: Is that neurological in origin? Must be right? 'Cause I got MS and all. So with the new drop foot on the left . . . yep, you guessed it . . . another cinematic sensation comes to mind. You may not know this but I'm a sucker for inspirational sports movies. And ever since this contrary toe pointing phenomenon reared its ugly head (or should I say toe?) I've had this particular line from this particular flick resonate within me.
"TOE PICK! Toe pick! tOe PiCk!" Any guesses movie-goers? Cinema buffs? Anyone? Amelia? It was 1992's "The Cutting Edge" starring D.B. Sweeney and Moira Kelly. Loved it! Notice I get side tracked easy? Me too. The first step in overcoming it is admitting there's a problem. Huh? I know. I know. There I go again. So back to "the King of the Rink and America's Ice Queen" not to be confused with the even more beloved Ice Queen of Narnia. Anyways, poor Sweeney's character struggles with his skates "toe pick" causing innumerable fall scenes. Much like you'd find if visiting my house these days.
So, boys and girls, I'm a hot mess. And things is gettin' hotter. I tried to take it easy post 4th of July celebrations. I prayed I'd snap out of it. Snap back. Snap - at all. I desperately scoured for even the teensy tiniest of improvements. "Not now," I begged. "Pleeeaaaase not now!" It's such shitty timing for an exacerbation. I've not only went against my doctors as of late and even turned braggart touting improvements - I'd set my appointment for Atlanta. July 22. Surely I could make it 'til then. Surely.
Surely not. Wednesday of this week I found myself nearly immovable. I'd made it to the couch but when the time called for assisting the kiddos with this or that, or even venturing to the potty. Welllll, I'll spare you the details. After Jason made it home for lunch and assisted yours truly (again, I'll spare you the faint at heart readers) I decided to remain couch bound. To hell with the kitchen, the bathroom, or beyond -- all of them highly ovverated destinations I tell ya.
"Can we swim, Mommy? Mommy? Mommy, can we swim?" was the afternoon's mantra. Well, they could have, but God forbid something go awry and I be unable to intervene. Talk about unforgivable. I call in to my Momma. She too worries she'd be unable to help them. And Amelia? She was elbow deep in diapers and eyeball deep in babysitting duties as it was. She offers to help all the time, but my two on top of her paying customers may drive her straight to Coocoo Cove. Ever been there? It's not far. And they only serve cocoa puffs.
So we give the other Granny and Pawpaw a try. Duh, duh, duuuhhh! Pawpaw to the rescue! Thank you dear sir! Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. And thank you Granny for lending him to us. He came. He saw. He stayed about 30 minutes. And that was all she wrote. Pool visits usually average that. I knew it wouldn't be a two hour ordeal as Granny had feared. Again, thanks! And again, I'm sorry to always be asking so much of everyone. There's a light at the end of this dark, dank tunnel. There just has to be! God says. So there!
So the miraculous feat of my reaching the top of the stairs was celebrated that evening with talk of blasted steroids. I suffered sooo, with them the last time that I had sworn them off completely. Well, so much for that whilst staring complete immobility in the face. So much so I could smell his rancid breath. Horrific, I tell ya. Toe curling even. No, wait! I can't get my newly bluish, purpling digits to curl or twitch or nothin' damnit! Dead!
So taking pity on me we decide to give me a day of real true rest and see if some sort of tinge of an improvement can't be drudged up. Awake at 7:30 and the boys are off to Granny and Pawpaw's for the day. Again, thank you! You truly must be the best in-laws anyone could ask for. I'm so blessed to have you. So thanks to a gracious Mary and Kenny I spend my Thursday in bed. I blog. I farm. I catch up on 'Hell's Kitchen' and 'Persons Unknown' among other various boob tube addictions of mine.
Anyways, I stay in bed. Up only occasionally for potty breaks. Awfully long drawn out trips to and fro with said shitter only being located maybe 4 or 5 feet from my bed. I'm not bitching about this endeavor however as I can proudly boast all parties involved stayed clean and dry. Yay, me! An Ms victory! Only wish I had the energy to celebrate.
No such luck as I knew I needed to save up for the next bathroom visit. With each venture out of the bed it took longer and longer to reach my goal destination. Alah, zee SHIT tar! Remember. Stay with me now. Getting there in time was not the problem. At least not Thursday. Where the problem came in this dreary day was with my returning to bed unscathed. Had I been having to fight thru rabbid alligators seething angry from their 2nd story bedroom moat? No. Of course not. How absurd. We hadn't had a chance to have that installed yet. Damn contractors and their unimaginative BS. Again, I digress?!
To put it quite simply with each return to my inviting king-sized pillow-top mattress I found it more and more difficult to, ummmm, mount up let's call it. My varsity basketball program read 5'10". I entered modeling school at 5'9 1/2". Truth be told, I'm prolly only 5'8" or shorter now thanks to a not so nice Mr. Gravity. My point? My point is I've always been considered fairly tall. By far the tallest in kindergarten classmates began gaining on me in Jr. High. Whatever!
Fine. 5'8" then, but get this. I had a horse. Dusty was his name. Beautiful leopard gelding standing at 16.2 hands. That my equine challenged friends is one tall animal. Guess what long legged trollip could saddle, mount and ride him, no problem? Yeh, me. Of course me! Smoothest going horse I've ever had the privilege of riding. Sure do miss that 'elephant.' He favored more of a giraffe, but who am I to judge. Trophy after trophy can't be wrong! Right?
So, yes, the bed is fixed at an incline. Not long after my Dad passed away I looked at Jason and said, "You know, I used to sleep so good taking naps in Dad's bed. Wonder if it'd help to jack ours up to?" Ask and ye shall receive. And so shall it be. Time passes and we find ourselves adding more blocks. We're both breathing better. Resting better. You oughtta give it a try. Start small of course as we don't want the bed to lose ya.
Oh, no! Another movie just came to mind. Amelia, ya with me? "Blind Date!" Bruce Willis. Kim Basinger. John Larrochette from 'Night Court,' remember him? Aside, of course from all of the late great Richard Pryor's movies, "Blind Date" may well be one of the funniest movies of all time. Put it in your Netflix queue! I won't tell you again! So anyways the hungover, broken bed, silk sheets scene comes to mind here. See it, damnit! You haven't lived until you do.
Another worth queing up is Dudley Moore's best comedic performance ever. Not "Arthur" you bunch of lushes. It's easy to play drunk, drunk. Besides I'm not a huge fan of Dorothy's daughter Lizza. Except maybe her bit part in 'Arrested Development.' A shame that's off the air. Network bastards! Any who, the comedy I speak of is titled, "Micki & Maude." Hilarious! But again with the digression. Not to be confused with aggression. Yet!
Let's let them steroids kick in, shall we? So back to bed, right? That was becoming a problem. Each time I returned to bed it became more and more daunting a task to get back atop the sheets. I'd given up climbing in via my usual route. I'd adjusted my approach beginning much more near the foot of the bed than seemed natural.
Fine, you got me. One time I did come from the foot. Stupid though realizing all too soon I'd now have a mountain to brave before reaching my pillow. When it rains, it pours I tell ya! What a purrrrdicament. "Get the hell outta my way, Cat! Don't make me sick my pitbull on ya!" And scene . . . That's quite enuff of that miserable tale. (equally as miserable pun intended!)
Suffice it to say, I begrudgingly agreed to the steroids. I knew they'd cause me pain. Possibly excruciating. I knew I'd gain all the weight back I worked so hard to lose. "Hello again Club 200. I haven't been away too long. Will I have to renew my membership?" Zits a sure thing. Hunger for sure. Bad taste in mouth. Figuratively and literally. And now comes the sarcasm: wait for it. Wait for it. YIIIPPPPPEEEEE!!!
Guess Atlanta would be a no go for launch now. Bummer. I'd so wanted to get out and 'blow the stink off' as the saying goes. And even having someone claiming to be versed in anything Zamboni to take a look see at my blood flow, wellll, that would've been sweet! So what if they didn't 'know their ass from a hole in the ground' as the other saying goes. At least their lying to me about some astoundingly positive CCSVI results would have helped catapult me on to parts unkown. Bulgaria, more than likely. I dunno.
Out all that money then I could hunt down these lying Georgia blow-hards and exact my revenge. All whilst in a wheel chair with little to know upper arm strength. Yay, me! I had sooo much to look forward to in that dark scenario. Now, well, I have even less to dream about. Yummy, yummy. Steroids in my tummy. They'd surely skew my test results should they indeed be truly legit in the first place. Perhaps, this calls for a re-scheduling. Optimistic, much?! I know, right?
Next up, Friday. All roided up I opt to keep the kiddos. Positioned on the couch (the end nearest the powder room) with lap top in lap and Coke in hand, I kiss the hubby bye! "Love you, Baby! We'll be ok," I call to him as he exits. Famous last words, I tell ya. Or should I say infamous? Hadn't realized it at the time, but I had just all but sealed my catastrophe warrant. Once one of the brightest crayons in the box, MS was beginning to dull my vibrance. Saddistic Shit! But name calling doesn't do anyone any good. Well I do enjoy coming up with them sometimes, but . . . moving on!
My maiden voyage to the far away lands of anywhere off the couch, wellll, I can honestly report. It was quite a trip! Ha! Get it? Well, I sure did. Carpet ravaged knees and bent up toes and all. "And a good morning to you living room floor!" Gooch not far behind me to check on me and inquire as to whether or not he could be of any assistance, my two yay-whos, flesh of my own womb - they were quite a different story remaining completely unmoved.
True devoted, wholly invested gamers. Just like their Daddy. What had I expected? Nothing. My falling had become old hat to them. And just a sidenote: (a bit of bragging included) I pride myself on falling gracefully. It's possible I preferred to crawl. Not likely, but possibly, sure. We'll skip from here to my yelling at the kiddos to bring me the phone. Enter my night in shining armor, again. And fast forward to my reunion with the couch. I love reunions. Especially ones with comfy furniture.
So the afternoon begins. And so does this blog entry whilst humming me some DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince. And what's this? News back from my neuro already? News back regarding my 11 AM request to go to the hospital. It's not often one actually requests to be admitted. Please understand faithful followers, that my worsening was even beginning to worsen. This bout with the dreaded MonSter may well be worth getting the show on the road. i.e. how about a mega offensive maneuver via some stellar potent intravenous steroid action. But I'm no doctor. If I were, I'd done be LIBERATED y'all. And you would too. C'mon over! Git 'er done!
So here's the juice (yes, of course, pun was absolutely again very much intended!) . . . The neuro's receptionist informs my husband it's no longer policy to admit patients for steroid treatment. Hide your eyes now whilst I abbreviate my initial reaction. WTF? You've got to be kidding me, right? Riddle me this dear receptionist - do you no longer treat patients suffering from MS? Allow me a little rambling, won't you? I think I've earned it.
DJ Jazzy? You still there? **clears throat** "Just checkin' on ya Jazz. Thanks! No beat needed, man!" I'd only hoped to set a sarcastic tone. And quite bluntly put, if I have attained it yet. To hell with it. Here it goes, Ms. Receptionist. This is for you dear: MS. ** clears throat again** It stands for Multiple Sclerosis. Ever heard of it? It's one sneaky, cruel bastard. It's debilitating. Crippling. Well, you know. Right? Right.
Surely she does. I must think she does. She's worked at that particular neuro's office every bit as long as I've been his patient. And that my friends has been every bit as long as needed to pick up on the no doubt sorry saps hobbling thru the doors. I know 'cause I've see 'em. I don't even have to make this shit up. These are cold hard facts. No ellaborations here. No grease added.
Truly, even if it'd been Helen Keller manning the desk all alone, she'd have known the dear ole doc was treating a miserable bunch. Hehehe. I inadvertently made a funny. Can you tell which word does not belong. Hehehehe. Now I've even made myself laugh out loud. A comedianne, I tell ya. Blossoming right before your very eyes. Guess it yet? It's TREATING. Ha! The doc actually TREATING his MS stricken patients. Now that's a hoot! Can I get an Amen? Now go in and take that bitch out with a scalpel. Yeh! Now that's treatment!
So wow! What a revelation that little exchange had been. I only wish I had been on top of my game. Now that I've had time to let it absorb and fester . . . I so badly want to retort, "WOW! THAT'S GREAT NEWS. I'M SO GLAD YOU FINALLY CAUGHT ON THAT STEROIDS AREN'T THE ANSWER!" I'll need a breath here to maintain my composure. And then before the dear girl threatens to break the silence . . .
I continue, "I ASSUME INSTEAD OF ADMITTING PATIENTS TO ADMINISTER IV STEROIDS, YOU'LL SIMPLY BE REFERRING THEM ALL TO AN INTERVENTIONAL RADIOLOGIST TO PERFORM OUTPATIENT ANGIOPLASTY AND SEND THEM ON THEIR MERRY WAY EXACERBATION FREE!" (brief pause)
"AND WHO KNOWS? THEY MAY EVEN BE RELIEVED OF OLD LURKING SYMPTOMS THE POOR SAPS HAD GROWN ACCUSTOMED TO HAVING TO DEAL WITH. WHAT A TRUE GIFT THAT WOULD BE! HALLELUJAH! PRAISE GOD! YOUR OFFICE OUGHT TO BE NOMINATED FOR SAINTHOOD. OR THE NOBEL PRIZE. OR SOMETHING. YOU ROCK. THANK YOU. AND BLESS YOU!"
Sooooo, how ya think that would have been received? A hang up? Sure. Refusal to treat. Prolly. Restraining order even? Hell, yeh! Why not? Bring it on. I'm up for it. As long as it doesn't require any walking. Ha! I joke, 'cause I can. I mean, what the hell else can I do at this point? Really?!
Is it bed time yet? Should be, but guess what? My steroid riddled body ain't tired. No sir! Just my eyes are weary. Poor baby blues. Will she or won't she make it upstairs, folks? Place your bets, folks! I'm bettin' on yes. Crawl, claw or saddle up my trusty pit bull steed and ride -- my ass is elevated king-sized pillow top bed bound. It's so comfy and location is everything, these days, only four feet from the thrown.
What more could a girl ask for? Welllll, besides the death of a MonSter!? Night all! Sweet dreams! I pray my steroid fueled soap box sermon did not offend . . . welllll, too much anyways!