Insomniblargh Sunday

Before I get started, I just wanted to reassure my whole and fractional Sims enthusiasts that I am indeed working on an update.

So let's begin where the sleeping didn't.  Last night I got into one of those arguments you've had so many times, you start to think you're actually watching a rerun of Bullshit's Greatest Hits, when it actually does hit you that there's a new element to the same old argument that's been blooming below the surface so long, you can't believe it hasn't started writing its own blog that almost no one reads.  Without going too far off into a detail ditch regarding the aforementioned torture method, suffice it to say that it presented my brain with a problem so convoluted, so unsolvable, so circuitous that I was powerless to stop the continuous loop of failed attempts to de-problemate.

I tossed around for a few hours, took a hopeful dose of Benadryl and after awhile started to finally drift off  just before some lazy fuck decided to loudly honk their horn right outside of my bedroom window, rather than waste one of their precious minutes hauling their fat ass out of their car to knock on a door, or God forbid, lift a finger to push a button on their phone to alert their passenger of their presence - an act which probably would have required less pressure than laying on their horn.  But why be logical or considerate of others before 10am on a Sunday morning, when you can behave like an entitled buttface.  It's your world, you just allow me to live in it.

Once the adrenaline shock from that interruption wore off, it was time for our upstairs neighbors to start their day - which, for reasons I'll never understand, seems to involve master bedroom races.  Today's festivities also included something rattling at irregular - yet never ending - intervals against their bathroom floor.  All events that are ultimately not blocked out by the application of earplugs and a white noise machine. 

I gave up on sleep, hard.  The rest of my family eventually got up, and not soon after, wakefulness gave up on me.  I zombie shuffled back to bed and did my best to ignore the continuing 2nd floor Olympics while my husband took the kids to the park.  Once they all returned, I was forced to give up on sleep once again due to the blood curdling tones of an epic, hour-long meltdown. 

Nothing left to do at that point but sit on the couch with my face in my hands praying either for death, or for a cheeseburger so delicious it would almost be impossible to believe it ever really existed to materialize in my hands.  Neither came.  I did, however, manage to miraculously short circuit the toddler meltdown by using my primitive brain to suggest, "Give snack, even if he screams like he doesn't want snack." and then later offering him a plastic cup and a magazine.  Which really seems like a solution to a completely different problem, but when you're desperate, you go with whatever works.

Again, I attempted sleep.  I managed to wrestle a full 30 minutes from those asshole gods of sleep, where I had a quick dream in which an old male high school classmate of mine sat down near me in a restaurant, and said, apropos of nothing, "I only write comic books to pick up chicks." before shooting me a shit-eating grin.  Next, the server collected my plate of potatoes before I was done, right before a stranger stuck his finger in my mouth. 

I woke, noted the time, pin-balled myself against a few walls and pieces of furniture to use the toilet, and stumbled to the livingroom couch where I sat with an empty expression - quite expertly, I might add - until my husband returned from the wild with a hard-won Sonic crispy chicken salad for me.  They'd forgotten the dressing, made him wait 15 minutes for his food, and tried to keep a $7 tip on a $13 bill (and in the end, still shorted him $1 in change) so I'm not entirely certain the building still exists.  He did say we'd never be eating there again.

So how was your Sunday?

Size Matters (but not how you think)

When you find yourself thinking, "My kid dumped almost his entire sippy cup of milk on his face, head, back and our couch this morning - he's got to be thirsty at this point.  There's no way he'd do the same thing again this afternoon.  I can stand in the kitchen for five minutes to have a snack."

You are wrong.  Very fucking wrong.  Not only that, but he'll decide to dump the milk where you sit this time, and it will all happen on the day you finally, finally get the steroid injections in your knees.

Now that experience was a big party all by itself.  You get up an hour and a half early, and arrive on time for your appointment.  The doctor is over an hour late - without explanation, or apology.  When she does finally see you, she pulls out a needle the size of a god damned coffee straw.  Right.  She puts that needle in each knee three times: two on the top, one on the inside, under the kneecap.  Actually, it was twice in the right kneecap, because she didn't quite hit it right the first time. 

She tells you that you have a high tolerance for pain, probably because you didn't scream curse words at her.  Yet.  Then, like some kind of over-caffeinated cheerleader, she starts asking you how you feel.  How does it feel when you stand?  How does it feel when you sit?  Does it feel any better?  How does it feel when you move your leg?  How does it feel when you walk?  How about now? 

How about you just chill the french toast out, lady - you didn't sprinkle me with fairy dust, or wave a magic wand ... you just jabbed my knees several times with a needle the size of terrifying.  That didn't feel too great, and I'm still kinda sore from that - how am I supposed to tell the difference between the old pain and the new pain?  If I could get rid of headaches by punching you in the face, would you want me peeping in your ear immediately, "how ya feelin'!? feelin' better yet?!"

At this point, you realize you've been dicking around the doctor's office so long that you've got just enough time to get home so your husband can make it to work, but as you're walking out the doctor says - with no further explanation, "Take a seat out there."  At first you think she's just testing your ability to sit again, but when she walks away, you think, "fuck?" 

You question the receptionist, who informs you that they expect you to sit there for an additional 15 minutes, just to make sure you don't pass out.  This is the first you've heard of this waiting period.  You try to explain that you're already late because you didn't get in until an hour past your appointment, but no one really cares that your husband's job is looking for any excuse to fire people before they have to give them the severance package in a few months.  So you slump grudgingly into a chair, glaring at their stupid magazines, making a list of everything you hate, including pointless rule following, until the receptionist takes mercy on you and lets you go early.

Now you're sitting on a towel, so your butt doesn't get soaked with milk, your knees kinda hurt in a different way, and the day isn't even half over.  The only thing left to do is sigh, wait for the steroid migraines to start, and hope your husband doesn't have to work tomorrow.