Recovery

Its been 8 days since surgery. I ran out of percocet today. Not that I really really need it. The pain is bearable... but it sure would be nice to just pop one and take a peaceful, long, pain free nap. However, I'll survive.

I'm getting 21 days off from work. (YES!) I wasted the first week lying on the couch with Picasso all drugged up. I watched a shameful amount of America's Next Top Model. Maybe this next week I'll dress myself in something other that orange sweatpants and an MTV t-shirt (which is red, so it makes the ensemble truly repulsive) and get out of the house.

Actually, getting out of the house is actually something I won't be doing, actually. It's been 105 degrees here all week. I don't do well with heat. Neither does my yard. The grass so so dead and crunchy that it hurts Picasso's feet to walk on it. All my flowers burned up-- except for my roses, which I think are cousins to weeds anyhow.

Sorry snapdragons, but you burst into flames.

In short, my bruises are fading and the incisions are healing. I can sleep on my side now instead of my back, in a far less Dracula-like fashion. Its supposed to take 6 weeks for everything to heal and feel good again. I'm anxious. Right now I have Frankenstein boobs: all sewn together. (Wow, 2 fictional villains in 1 paragraph.) I'm confident everything will turn out great.

Except my yard. That is a lost cause.