Warning: After a recent near death experience—the most serious threat was the ER staff interrupting me as I tried to watch the playoffs—this is even less a comprehensive candy review than usual. Maybe that's why the TVs are so high, so in case something goes terribly wrong you can watch the Cowboys lose one last time as you rise to your maker. I'm assuming rise. Am I assuming too much? My dead Irish grandmother, btw, would have smacked T.O. upside the head for blubbering on national TV like that. Am I being too harsh?
So for Christmas I wrapped up three bars of Bloomsberry & Co. chocolate. My sister the nurse got the Emergency Chocolate (she's been on this "Do. Not. Bring. Any. More. Sweets. Into. This. House." kick), so it seemed fitting. It's an Emergency, enjoy. Guido, the nephew in high school, got a bar of Instant Gratification, and my mother, the candyholic forever trying to cheat death by eating cereals that should come baled, got a 3.5 ounce bar of 100% Guilt Free Chocolate.
Other popular Bloomsberry titles include Eat Me, BoChox, and the undoubtedly popular Oral Pleasure (34% cocoa). Oral Pleasure says it's "For internal and external and internal and external use." Eewww. Bloomsberry & Co. is from New Zealand, where I guess they need a sense of humor.
My Trip To The ER
Convinced tainted cherries and a junk food jamboree were responsible for an Alien level belly ache, I toughed it out for two hours Sunday morning before slipping on my Crocs, making sure I had on clean underwear, and driving to my favorite ER. (This hospital serves Babcock ice cream and bakes the blueberries right into their pancakes.)
You could drop dead in triage, where they were more concerned about the parking lot than the doubled up rag that could barely lift her head to watch the Chargers at Colts in the waiting room. But once those sliding doors admitted you into the ER, it went from Kansas to Oz. The cable reception was good, the remote was within reach, and the drugs came quickly and often. I was optimistic despite being offered opiates like a tray of potato knishes. Or maybe because I was being offered opiates like a tray of potato knishes.
No one seemed too interested in my wax baggie of tainted cherries. They made me drink a pitcher of "contrast" and put me in this humming ring that reminded me of the Stargate bred with a copy machine.
I got laughs when I asked "Could I get meds-to-go so I can watch the last game at home?" I was being serious. Just before I went into surgery to get my appendix out I asked, "Are you sure it's not just a little gas?" Still not kidding.
It wasn't gas, and now I have an unreasonable fear of fresh fruit.
This counts as Day 11.