I Followed The Advice Of Dr. Instagram And Other Proof That I Am Bad At Life

My name is Unwashed, and I recently developed an unfortunate case of idiocy. I’ve always made poor choices, but this week I decided to ramp it up a notch or eight thousand. Case and point-

I Followed a Medical Recommendation on Instagram

When I die, and my life flashes before my eyes, I have no doubt that this decision will haunt me but the unfortunate part is; I’d probably do it again. There’s nothing quite like being 39 weeks pregnant and hearing your healthcare provider repeat the words “induction” over and over, to make a person listen to the snake oil salesman and say “Sorry? You want me to snort this? Of course! That sounds like a marvelous idea!”

This was how I found myself drinking a “Labor-Inducing Mixture” last Thursday afternoon. Ok not exactly a mixture because our town didn’t have two of the four ingredients required. It was basically just castor oil.

Supposedly castor oil is a laxative. This is not true. Prunes are a laxative. If Elon Musk figured out a way to power a spaceship using poop, people would be orbiting the planet formerly known as Pluto right now on the power of castor oil.

Castorx

Clearly I had a hand in designing the laxative rocket with Elon because Tex claims that the red cap is not aerodynamic.

For serious, dear readers, it was bad. Really bad, but on the plus side, I won’t need to go until May. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with all of this newfound free time- take up an instrument perhaps? Or spend it with my new baby. One of the two. Tragically the idiocy didn’t stop there.

I Sent My Husband Away While In Labor

Funny enough, the snake oil worked. But I didn’t believe it because, if a pregnant woman becomes dehydrated, she will experience intense Braxton Hicks. So after trying to send myself to the moon on just biofuels and poor choices, I concluded that I wasn’t in labor and told my husband to go teach German to the kids down the street. Tex for his part knew I was in labor but figured he had five to eight hours and that there wasn’t much he could do aside from standing outside the bathroom door asking whether I wanted to take medical advice from Jenny McCarthy or Tom Cruise next.

I Feel Dead Baseball Player Drugs = Fabulous

After calling my husband back and getting our son to a friend’s, we rolled up to the hospital and I asked for pain meds. “We can give you Fentanyl” replied the nurse. To which I responded “Excellent, the drug that killed all the fat baseball players in the nineties.”

In case you’re wondering, that was ephedrine. Fentanyl is what’s killing the junkies of today. I’m sure that drug also would have been fabulous. Not that I would know, because my labor had progressed too far to take anything, which is unfortunate because this was my only opportunity to wobble around like a tripped out attendee of Burning Man.

I Equate Teenage Lead Quarterbacks with Doctors

The only time I swore during this entire process was when I was informed that a friend’s husband was the obstetrician on call, at which point I dropped a loud F-bomb. He’s a nice man and a good doctor, it’s just flashing your cootch at another girl’s guy is the kind of behavior that can lose you a peer group in high school. It would seem I have zero concept of professionalism.

In the end it didn’t matter, as someone else was on call, and also because

I DIDN’T LEAVE ENOUGH TIME

Like most people, I spend about five to seven percent of my day wondering about women who have toilet babies. Did they not know they were in labor? How did this happen? Well I have the answer- they’re the same women who follow the medical regimens posted by randoms on social media. And I’m now one of them.

Though I didn’t have a baby in the bathroom, there wasn’t enough time for the obstetrician to be called, which is how I found myself looking over my knees at a thoroughly unimpressed anesthetist. I looked at him and thought “Sir, this isn’t what I do for kicks and giggles either”. Only I didn’t say that aloud because he was helping me. Also it would have alarmed the thirteen year old resident huddled in the corner.

Luckily, the on-call obstetrician’s other car is the Millenium Falcon. Or some other such vehicle that moves at the speed of light, because minutes later, she walked in and took over, much to everyone’s relief.

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This is a picture of the obstetrician en route to deliver my baby. Only instead of a stoned Harrison Ford at the helm, insert an exceedingly warm, blonde lady. (Photo Credit : comicbook.com)

I Didn’t Pack Food

I woke up in the middle of the night and briefly considered gnawing on Tex’s arm like a rabid wolverine because I was starving. Fortunately my husband must have anticipated this and moved from the hospital bed to the chair, out of my reach. I’m a bit like an alligator that way- hungry, but terribly lazy too.

I Talked Up The Disposable Mesh Hospital Underpants WAAAAAAAAY Too Much

Tex was dispatched to procure feminine products. Being a thoughtful man, instead of purchasing what I requested, he decided to do one better- buy me my own disposable underpants. So if you’re wondering why my butt is making crinkling sounds when I move, it’s because I’m wearing enormous incontinence briefs meant for ninety year olds.

 

Addendum: Tex informs me the resident is NOT thirteen. He just celebrated a birthday- he’s fourteen. My apologies. As a person who once was asked by a gruff French hotel proprietor whether my parents knew what I was doing when I reserved a room for Tex and myself, I probably shouldn’t insult people who appear younger than they are.

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Famine, Pestilence and Trump: The Plagues of the United States and Preparing for those Horsemen

Dear America,

Sorry you’re cursed. Incredibly sorry, because as Canadians we’re neighbours, so if the United States inundated with milkweed and other noxious weeds, in all likelihood so are we.

But getting back to the heart of the matter, America, you’re cursed. Or at least, I’d like to believe you are. Because it would be awful to imagine that you chose to put Trump into power. Not that we your countrymen of the North have any right to throw stones. After all, we are the masterminds behind the global joke that was Rob Ford. The difference was we put our buffoon in charge of a city, America, you put yours in charge of a country. For FOUR YEARS.

A mistake of that magnitude can be the result of one of two things, mass idiocy or a mass cursing. Again, we chose this guy.

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He’s a winner. (Photo Credit: theglobeandmail.com)

So we can’t judge, consequently, America, I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt and instead believing that you’ve angered the gods.

In light of this smiting, there are a couple of precautions Americans should take:

  1. Move all laundry indoors, I know you people are all excited about the green movement, but given the events of the past couple of days, the locusts are coming soon and you’re going to need your underpants for what comes next.
  2. Contact that uncle who’s a carpenter. Yes, your computing friend who does work for Google, can solve any technological problem, but he knows diddly squat about ark building.
  3. Avoid all aquariums and the seaside, also possibly nearby lakes. The gods are ticked, at this point any marine animal might gobble you up. Being swallowed by manatees or invasive carp is just not a good way to go.
  4. Be wary of colourful outerwear and siblings. That brother who stuffed a sock in your mouth when you were little? He’s high on the list for selling you into slavery. Shove that brilliant red Isaac Mirzahi coat to the back of your closet and chose more drab garb for the time being. Canceling family brunches is an idea too.
  5. Find Charleton Heston. Moses is dead, so the next most likely candidate to lead persecuted people out of a tight spot is this gun toting specimen of a man. Even if he can’t part large bodies of water, my guess is that his stock pile of firearms would scare the dickens out of any adversary.
  6. Scratch that last one, apparently Charleton Heston is dead too.

America, those are all my ideas to help you aside from the obvious options which are prayer and hugging a Muslim because they’re having a rough time of it right now.

Sincerely,

The Great Unwashed