The Infamous Ellen James (Infamous Series) (6 page)

Could this get any worse?

Yes, actually it
can
get worse. And it
does
.

The video continues with me shouting while I can barely hear Amy's giggle in the background. The bartender grabs me by the knees and throws me over his shoulder. I am thrashing around and yelling for him to put me down, but this doesn't even faze him.

He proceeds to haul my stupid ass out of the bar. The video ends with the bar cheering and clapping when the bartender comes back in sans the idiot drunk girl who just managed to make a complete fool of herself.

I set the phone down on the kitchen table and slowly lift my eyes to look at Amy. She is doing her famous silent laugh as tears are streaming down her cheeks.

"Amy! What the hell?!"

She isn't holding back the laughter now. Amy is laughing so hard that she is snorting. Her chest is vibrating with laughter as she slaps her knee and wails in hysterics. My anger level is rising to new heights at the moment, and I decide its best to leave the kitchen before I start re-enacting Fight Club. I am so unbelievably pissed that I just stand up, throw my mug in the sink, and stomp my way back towards my bedroom.

"Elle, come back! I'm sorry, but that is some seriously funny shit!" Amy chokes out through continued bursts of laughter.

"I take it back, Amy! If I liked vagina, there is NO way you would be my number one lesbian lover! You wouldn't even be in my top three! You'd be behind the fat girl in Pitch Perfect!" I scream at her before slamming my bedroom door.

Dear Hangover,

I'm your bitch.

Sincerely,

Ellen

Chapter Nine

“Karma can be a snarky little bitch.”

I am finally fully recovered from my hangover after the infamous Harlem Shake night. Although I love that bitch dearly, tequila rocked my ass, and I found myself severely hungover all day yesterday. Even ibuprofen and greasy fast food couldn't save me from the nasty headache and all-day nausea.

I know, poor me, right? But seriously, my whole body is still aching today!

I'm presuming the muscle soreness may be a direct result of all the dancing I apparently took part in. I'm using the term dancing very loosely here. The moves I was displaying on Amy's video were nothing short of pathetic, looking more like I was having an actual seizure rather than the sex kitten I was probably picturing in my drunken head.

So here I am, facing another exciting day in the emergency room. I have officially made it halfway through my shift, and I'm getting close to being able to sit my tired ass down for a few minutes. I told Nurse Ratchet I would see this last patient before going on break.

I pull back the curtain in bed one and find this frail, little elderly woman quietly sitting on my gurney. She's an eighty-year-old petite little thing who's about five feet tall and couldn't weigh an ounce over one hundred pounds soaking wet.

"Hi, Mrs. Franks. What brings you in to see me today?" I ask as I pull the curtain back for privacy.

"Oh, honey, I've been having this awful pain down in my undercarriage and I feel like everything is going to fall out." She nervously fidgets and adjusts the stark white sheet around her legs.

Did this woman really just say
undercarriage
?

"Okay. So how long have you been experiencing this pain and discomfort in your
undercarriage
?" I attempt to ask with a straight face.

"Hmmmm. Well, dear, I would say it's been at least a month now," Mrs. Franks replies quietly.

"A
month
, Mrs. Franks? What made you wait so long before seeing a physician?"

"Well, I have always just been able to push my undercarriage right back inside until today, so that's why I came in here to see you." She somehow manages to tell me this without a hint of emotion on her face.

Push her undercarriage right back inside?

God help me if this is going where I think it's going…

"Mrs. Franks, have you had any surgeries on your lady parts? Like maybe a hysterectomy?"

"Oh no, dear. I have all my lady parts, undercarriage included!" she says a little too excitedly.

Yeah, this really is going where I think it's going.

I do a quick assessment and vitals check on Mrs. Franks. Everything is stable and within normal limits. I politely tell her that the physician will be in to examine her shortly before closing the curtain behind me. I have a suspicion that this woman's uterus is quite literally falling out of her vagina. I'm pretty sure any time a little old lady is telling you she pushes her "undercarriage" back inside on a daily basis, we're most likely dealing with something falling out of her hoo-hah.

I hand John the chart for this patient to ensure that he's the one who gets to witness her "undercarriage dilemma." He's taken aback by the fact that I'm actually acknowledging his presence, and it's just too bad he hasn't quite grasped my motives yet.

"Here ya go, Dr. Ryan. Mrs. Franks is waiting patiently for you in bed one," I say to John with a sickeningly sweet smile plastered on my face.

"Thanks. Would you mind assisting me with her?" He asks while glancing through her history and physical.

"Sure, no problem." I'm waiting for his reaction when he finally realizes what this little old woman is here for.

"Uh, Elle.
Undercarriage
? I'm pretty sure that's not a medical term."

"Well, that's what the sweet old lady kept telling me, so that's what I wrote down.”

God, I'm such a bitch, but honestly, I can't help myself when it comes to him.

I follow John into bed one to
assist
with Mrs. Franks's examination. I'm acting like a good, resourceful nurse by obtaining a speculum, but I know that once this little old woman drops her pants, her uterus is most likely going to be sitting on the bed.

I can hardly hold back the laughter.

I tend to have an issue with laughing at inappropriate times, such as church, funerals, extremely awkward moments, or like this magical moment we're about to experience right now. I'm finding myself slightly overwhelmed by the hilarity of this entire situation. Unfortunately, John is completely aware of my issue with holding back laughter, and I notice that he's practically scowling at me.

I quickly turn around and act like I'm busying myself with one of the cabinets while John asks Mrs. Franks to remove her pants and underwear.

Damn my tendency to laugh at the most outlandish scenarios possible!

I'm practically shaking with quiet laughter at this point, and occasional snorts are escaping my nose while tears stream down my face. The fact that I know that John knows I'm laughing at him is making this situation even more comical.

I speedily attempt to pull myself together and turn around to help him when he sternly asks me to hand him a pack of sterile gloves. No way should I expect a physician to grab his own gloves. That would be absolutely crazy, right? I mean, that's a
nurse's
job.

Are you sensing my sarcasm? It's mighty heavy right now…

I discreetly wipe the tears from my cheeks before I grab a pair of size eight gloves from the cabinet. After I hand John the gloves, Mrs. Franks gives me a look of concern and asks if everything is all right.

"Of course, Mrs. Franks. I think I managed to get some dust in my eyes," I tell her while still trying to hold back the overwhelming urge to burst out laughing. I assist Mrs. Franks with placing her legs in stirrups while John continues to explain the type of examine he will be administering.

Sure enough, once I place her little chicken legs in stirrups, her "undercarriage" is hanging all the way out. That's right—Mrs. Franks's uterus is actually hanging out of her vagina.

John slowly glances my way and I quickly turn my head before I am faced with his pissed off glare. The quiet laughter threatens to take over again and I have to suddenly excuse myself before I cause an embarrassing scene right there in bed one.

Let's be honest. This entire situation is like a comedy sketch. I'm in a patient room witnessing my ex-fiancé's face all up in eighty-year-old saggy va-jay-jay, which also happens to have a giant uterus attempting to make the great escape.

Oh thank you, karma, you snarky little bitch
.

Chapter Ten

“Sometimes you feel like alcohol is the fuel to greatness. Then you wake up the next day and realize you're just one YouTube video away from becoming the next VH1 reality star with a giant clock hanging around your neck, desperately trying to get Flavor Flav to shoot his special sauce on your face.”

Amy and I decide to make it a girls only night and stuff our faces with large amounts of chocolate and red wine. We choose to watch the movie
Bridesmaids
because Kristen Wiig is a riot and the plane scene is our absolute favorite.

We have a nice selection of Reese's Cups, M&M's, cookie dough, and whipped cream.

The dinner of champions, my friends.

We agreed to just drink one bottle of our favorite Merlot.

We stick to that plan hardcore…for about forty-five minutes until we realize that we're out of alcohol. You'd think a bottle of wine would last longer than forty-five minutes. I head into the kitchen and pull out two more bottles of Merlot from my secret stash, pop the corks, and hand one to Amy before resuming my designated spot on the couch.

"What. The. Fuck? Where did you find these?" Amy is giving me an evil stare.

"Uhhhhh…my secret stash," I state with a laugh before taking a large swig from my bottle.

"I can't believe you've been hiding alcohol from me! I thought we were friends! What else is there? What else are you hiding? Candy? Ice cream? Condoms?"

I nearly spit out my wine when she mentions condoms. Luckily, I manage to contain my laughter and avoid staining our living room carpet red. There is one thing I refuse to do, and that is waste alcohol. I never
ever
waste alcohol.

"Of course I have a secret stash. Are you blind? If you knew about my secret stash, then you wouldn't have that bottle in your hands right now, because you would have already drunk it," I answer with a serious look on my face.

Shit gets real when we're talking secret alcohol stashes. I'm a grown-ass woman, and if I want to hide my alcohol like I'm on the show Hoarders, that's my own personal right.

Amy looks pensive as she thinks about my last statement. After a good thirty seconds of silence, which is rare in this apartment, she finally gives me a response. "Okay. You win. You're one hundred percent right that I would have already drunk this alcohol if I'd known about your secret stash."

I let out a large sigh of relief at her willingness to wave the white flag. I honestly didn't have the strength to be involved in WineGate 2013 tonight.

"How many Reese's Cups do you think I can eat in fifteen minutes?" I attempt to change the subject and choose one of our all-time favorite topics of discussion.

"You bring this up at least once a month, but you never actually prove yourself. Bring it, James. Show me what ya got!" Amy cheers loudly before running into the kitchen.

She comes back with a stopwatch, an extra bag of Reese's Cups, a notepad, and a pen.

"What's the pen and paper for?" I sit down in front of the coffee table, mentally preparing myself to crush a bag of Reese's Cups' like a woman who just got her period and is gorging herself after two weeks on a low-carb diet.

"To keep tally of how many Reese's Cups you can eat. Duh." Her tone is completely serious, and I glance up to see if she's actually joking.

She's not. She's one hundred percent serious right now.

"Are you fucking with me right now? You know you could just count the wrappers or even just count out loud as I eat them. I mean, it's only fifteen minutes."

"Oh. Well, maybe I was kidding with you."

"Let's just go with that assumption." I'm laughing a little at her expense, but I can't help myself. Occasionally, Amy has these rare moments that are absolutely hilarious and have me temporarily questioning what goes on inside that head of hers.

Fifteen minutes later…

I'm lying flat on my back, trying to avoid throwing up chocolate covered peanut butter. My mouth is watering like a faucet and my esophagus feels like it's boiling in undigested candy. I'm so nauseous that I can't even sit up straight, and I'm sure the large amount of wine I've consumed isn't helping my cause.

When I was eight minutes into my Reese's Cup challenge, Amy and I ran out of wine. We both decided that I obviously could not go on with the challenge unless I had more wine to help wash the candy down.
Logical, right?
Amy managed to find another bottle of some cheap red wine in the kitchen pantry. Now, I'm two bottles-of-wine deep, and I just consumed eighteen Reese's Cups in fifteen minutes.
Fuck.

"What do you think about that new surgeon who's watching over Dr. Grey's practice?" I continue to stare up at the ceiling of our apartment, counting the tiles and tiny cracks that are dispersed throughout. I'm trying desperately to get my mind off the fact that I might hurl all over our living room carpet.

"I think he's pretty hot and seems to make 'fuck me' eyes at you," Amy answers before beginning her routine of drunken hiccups.

"'Fuck me' eyes? You're crazy, you know that?"

"Yes, I know I'm crazy. That's why you love me so much. And yes, 'fuck me' eyes. Dr. Hamilton wants to thrust you something fierce."

Well, his dick sure seemed interested when he kissed me senseless in the supply room the other day…

“I feel like I've met him before. I get this feeling of déjà vu whenever I'm around him."

Amy giggles a couple of times and then glances over at me from the couch. "You need to start working on your 'Thrust me, Dr. Hamilton' campaign.'"