This Is His Brain on Drugs

So, my boo had a knee replacement done recently.  Now he has a matched set, as the doctor said.  We had a fine time of it, spending three days at Community North recovering.  We found that the food is good there (who knew?), the couch is comfy to sleep on, and the staff was a lot of fun.  They hung out in our room a lot, cause we are a fun little duo to hang out with.

Especially when Jim's on drugs.  Ya know, the man is a connoisseur of all things beer, but the man sure can't handle his Percocet.  He knew going into this, since he had experience with it, that there are two important things, when it comes to knee replacements:  1) do your exercises and 2) take your pain medicine.  If you skip either of these, life goes to hell in a handbasket pretty quickly.  And so it was that "Ron, that crazy Phillipino" physical therapist entered our lives as a little guy with a big wallop.  His suggestion, "every time a commercial comes on, do some of your exercises," was outmatched by the Marine who simply turned the channel more frequently.  He learned his lesson after about twenty minutes of that nonsense, and went right back to bending and stretching.

He did fine the first couple of days, but then they changed him to Percocet, and it REALLY got interesting.  At that point, he saw faucets marching down the hall, started singing, and even yelled "Shagalicious!" so loudly that the people in the nurses' station started laughing.  A friend of ours came to visit, and my boo sat there conversing, then turning into a blathering idiot mid-sentence.  I found he could handle 1 1/2 pills, but two made him nutsy cuckoo.  As in, when we got home, he took two and then told me to bring him "a tampon and some of that clusterf*** ice cream from the kitchen."

Gotta admit, I laughed.

Funny thing is, he would say these things, and then his face would go blank and he would say "I don't think that came out right, did it?"  "No, boo, it sure didn't."

So when we got home, I actually cooked.  I know, but miracles do happen.  I had to think about what he could eat, cause his tummy was still a bit upset.  I decided to make him some tuna casserole, because he loves the stuff.  It turned out really well, I must admit, and he cleaned his plate.  A day or two later, he asked what kind of leftovers we had.  Not much, I said, because Thomas had been over the let the dogs out while we were at the hospital, and he had cleaned us out (thankfully).  I mentioned the tuna casserole.  ::blank look::  "What the hell are you talking about?  Who made tuna casserole?"  "I did.  And you cleaned your plate.  It was on Monday."  "WHAT?  I thought that was chicken."  "Well, boo, you were on drugs.  But it was Chicken of the SEA."

::sigh::  My boo is morphing into Jessica Simpson.