Carpal FUN-nel

You know how it goes. You're going about life, minding your business, and WHAM...you wake up feeling like your right hand fell into the depths of hell at 2am every night. That's called Carpal Tunnel Syndrome and 18 years of doing deep tissue massage is the culprit. 

When I scheduled my surgery, I was given 2 options. I could go to the hospital and be put under anesthesia like a normal person or I could opt to have it done right there in the office, fully awake. 

With flash backs of my emotional instability from anesthesia side effects that became known as The Mrs. Grass's Soup Incident of 2016 (that Kearstin caught on video and still plays at parties) and since "like a normal person" never describes any decision I've ever made, I opted for the stay awake thing. 

The closer the surgery date came, the more nervous I got. What does a needle in the wrist feel like? What if it doesn't totally numb my hand? Do they check first or roll the dice and slit my wrist and see if I scream? These are things not even google can answer.

They said my husband could come in with me as a distraction which raised a whole new set of questions. Distract from what? Do they want him to distract me or them? Have you met my husband? Do you realize the magnitude of the distraction you're inviting into my surgery here?

I needed to calm my nerves. So I decided to trust them and show up for surgery like they told me to let Ron run experiments with CBD oil and then document the effects it has on my anxiety, as you do. And don't even sit there and act like you've never thought about letting your spouse dose you with over the counter marijuana plant oil. Or maybe you haven't. Don't get hung up on this one point because there's far more important questions you should be asking.

Where did he get CBD oil? His toolbox in the garage. 

Why does he have CBD oil in his toolbox in the garage? Approaching 29 years of marriage, I've learned the fewer questions I ask him, the better. 

Where were we? Ah. Calm my nerves experiments. 

I filled the dropper. He told me to squirt it under my tongue because it would "probably take effect faster." I lifted the dropper to my tongue, asked him what it tastes like, and as I squirted it into my mouth he answered- "I've never tried it before, but it probably doesn't have a taste."

That's the last thing I heard before the house echoed with the sounds of me violently vomiting into the bathroom sink while Ron screamed from the bedroom- "DON'T SPIT IT OUT! YOU'LL RUIN THE EXPERIMENT!" 

When he finally heard silence, he walked into the bathroom and found me on the floor beside the toilet with my shirt pulled over my head. He asked- "How do you feel?" From under my shirt, I replied- "Like killing you."

He said- "It's ok. I've got this." And he pulled out a tub of CBD cream. This quote from the movie 'Meet The Parents' came to mind as he began rubbing it on my wrist- Are you a pothead, Focker?

No more marijuana supplements. 

I briefly entertained the possibility of leftover codeine, but the last time I took Codeine after a surgery, Ron found me patrolling the house protecting our family from the BTK killer. You know, the guy who's been in jail since 2005. 

It's almost like I'm overly-susceptible to addictive substances or something. 

So I did the one thing I knew was a safe and fool-proof relaxation technique and at 9:30am on the morning of my surgery, I drank a margarita for breakfast, and besides Ron asking the surgeon if my feet should be in stirrups during the surgery, it was smooth sailing and drama free. At least that's how 'Tipsy Shari' remembers it, anyway. 

That should be where the story ends. This is us. The story never ends where it should...

The following day, we left our house for 2 hours. When we arrived back home, AFTER TWO.SHORT.HOURS, we found our pool halfway empty. After an in-depth investigation, we discovered that in those 2 freakin' hours, a wild animal roamed into our yard, fell into our beautiful salt water pool, and clawed it's way back out, leaving behind a shredded pool liner. 

Before you wonder if it was one of our dogs, we thought about that. But all of our dogs were completely dry and if you know anything about German Shepherds you know that it takes them at least 3 days to dry after they swim. Or fall off the boat into the lake. They ran their own stupid experiments to teach us that.

The following TWELVE freakin' DOG DAYS (AND NIGHTS) OF SUMMER consisted of DRAINING our 36,000 gallon pool, patching countless RIPS, TEARS, and CLAW HOLES all over the liner, then REFILLING our 36,000 GALLON pool with WELL WATER, from our GARDEN HOSE, then REPEATEDLY vacuuming and emptying the PILES OF IRON off the bottom of our pool, trying DESPERATELY and UNSUCCESSFULLY to return the pool to BLUE, with ONE USABLE HAND and RON OUT OF TOWN for SEVEN of those days (and nights!).

I don't know what the animal was, but I've cursed the existence of every coyote, possum, raccoon, and cat just to cover my bases. How 'bout next time you use the stairs you stupid son of a b****. 

So I don't wanna hear any lip about cancelling my 2 week post-op appointment because I removed my own stitches with a pair of scissors on day 10. Considering my state of mind, I didn't trust myself to sit across from a medical professional when they ask me if I've been taking it easy since my surgery.

As for the pool, in a moment of sheer disgust at looking at the color green with a test strip that read perfectly balanced chemicals, I dumped in 4 giant bags of salt and then when my husband got home I sat silently listening to him lecture me about never pouring in that much again.

But the very next day, the pool was blue.

Moral of the story: Don't ever tell an Italian woman she used too much salt.