The Night I Accidentally Got Stoned (and an unrelated pizza stone)

So I am glad that the heart-wrenching day of sending my firstborn off to Kindergarten is over.

Weeping lasted through the night, but joy came in the morning in the form of the FedEx man and this package from Pampered Chef.

It is my new pizza stone to replace my old pizza stone that Handy Daddy broke trying to cook pancakes on the stove top.

When I found out they'd send me a new one to replace the broken one, I informed him that he was off the hook.  I thought he would've been glad about that but, he was ambivalent, adding "I never knew I was on the hook."

Well, of course he was on the hook.  It was pretty much brand-new, used only twice to cook pizzas that were less than satisfactory.  That being because I used refrigerated Pillsbury pizza dough, which I am now boycotting because the silly things are rectangle, and pizzas, in most of the civilized world, are circle.

Okay, so I know you're probably like, "Shut up about the stupid pizza stone and tell us how you got stoned!"

Well, unfortunately, and unlike my good friend, Jodie, my super power is not "laying down and going to sleep." 

I would almost certainly sell a kidney to gain possession of that super power but, as of press time, I am a lifetime insomniac who has relied on a cocktail of drugs to lull me to that sweet sweet bye and bye for years. 

I am claiming deliverance, but that deliverance has not yet been granted, and so I just live with the thorn in my side of requiring horse tranquilizers to sleep. 

Not really.

Anyway...

I was out of my usual pills that help to shut down the non-stop freight train that is my brain and found some Ambien in the pantry.  This was prescribed to me a while back, but I didn't like the effect, so I hadn't taken them in a while. 

My doc prescribed 10 mg but told me to break them in half...

Well, I forgot all about that whole "break it in half" bit and took a whole one last night.

I went and sat on the couch and talked to Handy Daddy about school.  That's pretty much the last thing I remember.

He said I was talking about school and then I was quiet for a while.

He looked over at me and my mouth was hanging open and my eyes were barely open and I was tapping my hand on the folder sitting in my lap (picture a heavily-drugged pscyh patient).

This was our exchange:

"Mama, are you alright?"
"No."
"What's wrong with you?"
"I'm seeing double."
"Are you messin' with me?"
"No."
"Well, I think you should go to bed."

I got up and zig-zagged myself to the bathroom where I commenced to brush my teeth, wash my face, apply my lotions...

Handy Daddy comes in to check on me.

"I think you need to forget about all that and just go to bed."
"Have I gone to the bathroom yet?"
"I don't know.  Have you?"
"I don't know."
"Well, you'd probably better, since you've already lost control of the rest of you."

I actually woke up feeling pretty good, so it wasn't all a loss.

I found Handy Daddy sleeping on the couch.

"Why are you sleeping there?"
"Because Tootsie kept crying last night and you were...like...Night of the Living Dead."

He told me everything and I nearly peed my pants.

This is his re-enactment, for your viewing pleasure.



I joked that he could have had his way with me and I would've been none the wiser, to which he replied, "No I can assure you that nothing happened."

Hmpf.

Whatever.

I attribute this only to this...

...and not the fact that he was the perfect gentleman.

I cannot tell this story without telling you about an eerily similar experience of Handy Daddy's.

One of the things I've taken over the years (I use different things when something stops working) is an over-the-counter medicine called Alteril. 

I have to take at least two of them and wait at least an hour or so to get sleepy.  It's what I'd recommend to an infant with insomnia. 

Not really.

So anyway, Handy Daddy was having trouble sleeping one night and took ONE of them. 

I found him face down in just his skivvies in the guest room with the "big light" on (as opposed to the lamp-- go with it...it's what I call it).

The only way I can explain it is that he looked like he had stumbled home from a crack party (or what I envision someone looking like if they stumbled home from a crack party -- I really have no idea, thanks be to God).

Ahhhh, the memories.