I made a mistake.

An error. A faux pas. A lapse of good judgement. Even better, it was an attempt at good judgement gone terribly wrong.

All of you currently suffering from apoplexy simply because I admitted to making an error, knock it off.

Here's the deal. My husband, bless his heart, has decided to turn our spare bedroom into a home gym. Now, that's not such a big deal, but the jackass insists on using it as such. Consequently, he's lost 10 lbs, his gut is gone, his biceps have biceps, and his neck is missing. There's just a couple of huge freakin' trapezii where his neck used to be.

Now that has led me into a bit of, shall we say, self-image crisis. So I decided that I should do something about it. No, I haven't set foot into the gym room. Yet. Baby steps, people, baby steps. But I did buy a nice workout book, with lots of pictures, and exercises that I might use someday. (Note the lack of the word soon after the word someday.)

And when I went to the store on Sunday, I bought, *gasp* fruits and vegetables. I had some peas with dinner on Sunday. I had a salad for lunch yesterday. I ate apples for a snack. I had Lima beans with dinner last night. Some of you have figured out where this is going. Better yet, where I am going.

TO THE CAN!!!!! All the freakin' time! My bowels have absolutely no clue what to do with this foreign matter that has invaded them. They're screaming, "Get it out! Get it out! " and then getting it out. Explosively. As my sister put it, I am my own little Salad Shooter.

To top it all off, I have PMS. Horrible, evil, I-want-to-die-and-take-the-whole-world-with-me PMS. Motrin and Midol every 4 hours PMS. (Did you know that in the 1920's, Midol was marketed to men? I know some that could benefit from it in the 2000's...)

Anyhoo, everywhere between my neck and my kneecaps hurts. My ass is raw. All of my reproductive organs are in a state of status spasmus, and my GI organs are so hyperactive that I'm pretty sure they could use some Ritalin. And as I sat on the john this last time, I said to myself, "Self, we should head down to the ER for some Lortab!"

Hear me out, hear me out.... It'll help with the pain, (or at least make me not care about the pain), and in a day or two, I'll be constipated! Win-win!

Now, all I need is a good story..... Not too specific, or I'll get booted without the drugs. Not too vague, or I'll get stuck with an abdominal CT and a pelvic exam. **shiver of horror**

Wait, I need to take a shower. No, if I shower, I won't fit in with the other female abd pain drug-seekers. (An aside to the aforementioned drug-seekers: If you're going to come in with gynecological complaints, think ahead and shower, for crying out loud. We have to look at it, you know. If you break your ankle, we look at it, don't we? So why wouldn't we look at your kootch if you say it hurts?)

OK. Shower, Story, Script for Lortab. The three S's.........

Oh, screw it. I'll just go eat some cheese and chocolate. That'll work just fine. I'd never make a convincing drug-seeker anyway. I exude disdain for them. I'd end up talking the doc out of giving me the script for Lortab, anyway. That is what I do best, you know.