I don't know who I ticked off.
I don't know what I did that was so awful as to earn this bout of purgatorial-level pain.
I'll not go into specifics, lest you swoon from the grossness of it, but let's just say that I have a friend who is suffering from both schmiarrhea and phlegmorrhoids at the same time in addition to the whole there's-a-human-being-displacing-her-organs-and-jumping-on-her-bladder thing.
The way she tells it, this is the way things feel for her right now:
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH
(takes a breath)
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!
I spent a good ten minutes in the "So there's something wrong with your pooter" section of Smith's yesterday. I was starting to get stares from the girls behind the pharmacy counter. Now, ten minutes isn't really that long when you're at a restaurant or driving to the grocery store or something, but spending 600 seconds mulling over the labels of suppositories and anal vasoconstrictors is going to give people the distinct impression that you're a weirdo.
I went to the checkout area and placed my various selections on the belt. The man in front of me was kind enough to put a separator stick between his and my purchases, and I could tell he was an amiable fellow. I got the distinct impression that he wanted to pass the time in line by chatting with me, but he stopped pretty instantly when he caught an eyeful of what my purchases actually were. His eyes snapped forward and he started whistling to himself. Any possibility of chitchat was clearly evaporating while he was silently wondering how he always manages to get in line with the looney ones.
So what if I was buying suppositories, butter, sunburn ointment, and sippy cups? It was a busy weekend!
I have had the strongest craving for Marie Callender's strawberry pie for a week. It's all I can talk about with my poor husband-strawwwwwberry piiiiie.
I was all set to go on Wednesday to get a slice. I was going to get a piece of pie on my way into the office. But then Dim was jumping up and down about how much work there was to do, and why aren't you here already? So I canned the pie plan and went straight to the ofice. (Which ended up being a good decision, since there was a lot of work to do, and I wouldn't have gotten finished if I had delayed my work any. I hate it when he's right.)
This morning, Dim and I exchanged a few emails, and regardless of their subject, my opening line was always STRAWBERRY PIE. How is the billing? PIE. How is your day? PIE. How are those pregnancy-induced hemorrhoids treating you? PIE.
So he came home for lunch and dropped off a whole pie.
How half of it disappeared, I'll never know. Perhaps we have a colony of pie weevils living in the fridge.
The kids and I were on a walk last night, enjoying a beautiful, almost-summer sunset. The conversation went thus:
-Look mama, a pigeon!
-Yup.
-Pigeons are birds. I like pigeons.
-Oh, yeah. Pigeons are great. Everone loves them. Soph, what do pigeons eat?
-(thinking) Worms. Worms fill their belly and makes them feel better. They eat all kinds of worms.
-Okay. What do worms taste like?
-(thinking)
-Do they taste like ice cream?
-No. (pause) Maybe like Worm Ice Cream, though.
Mmmm. Worm ice cream.
I spent the day before yesterday not sleeping. Stress-related insomnia gets me a few times a month, and night-before-last was no exception. (Not that I have ANYTHING to stress out about!) I called yesterday morning to confirm that my sister was coming over that afternoon to babysit while I went into work. My sister was at my mother's house. Mom answered the phone, and I talked to her for a bit.
"Are you feeling okay, honey? You sound.....tired." This is universal mom-ese for "you sound like hammered poo. What happened?"
"I'm exhausted, Mom. I didn't sleep, and Bean was up a good chunk of the night, too."
"I'll have your sister call you. Hope you feel better, hon."
Not twenty minutes later, my sister calls. she says, a little unconvincingly "Work's a little slow right now. How about I head over now instead of waiting for the afternoon?" I was too tired to say no. She was at the house shortly thereafter, grabbed the kids, and ordered me to bed.
I rested up (but didn't actually sleep. Stupid insomnia.) enough to drag myself to the office. I put in a few hours and trudged back home. She ordered me back into bed, and I managed to sleep for an hour and a half. I was woken up by my daughter (not Bean, her sister) playing trampoline with the lining of my uterus. It wasn't a bad way to wake up, to tell the truth.
My sister's really come through for me the past year or so. The kids adore her, and she's a good body to lean on when I need help. She even offered to help me weed the backyard this weekend, which is great because I'm squatting out there every day trying to make headway, and yet a weedless yard escapes me.
You want comedy? Watch an obese five-month pregnant woman weed a yard on her hands and knees in the Vegas sun. It's like watching a Holstein graze in a Wile E. Coyote cartoon background. I wonder if Acme is hiring.