Mark had some significant oral surgery yesterday and I'll tell you that there is nothing funny about it. It isn't funny that he walked out of the hospital with his face swollen so bad that he looked like a skinny Homer Simpson. It isn't funny that Mark had to take two Xanax, and a double dose of his blood pressure medicine because every time the doctor walked into the room, his blood pressure went through the roof. Although it is funny that a doped up Mark says funny things, the ride home was amusing. It is also funny that I sat out in the waiting room with my phone on record so that I could catch the screams and howls of Mark. Unfortunately I got nothing, the walls were soundproof. It isn't funny that Mark is eating through a straw for the next forty eight hours while I eat my way through the refrigerator. Well maybe it's a little funny. But it is especially not funny that Mark is laying in bed all hopped up on pain killers, crying for me to bring him one of those Swiss Miss pudding cups. I wonder, if I double up on his Oxycodone can we make it through the night without him keeping me awake with his moans and groans? And by double up, I mean for me.