It All Went Downhill From There

I woke up feeling pretty good.  Maggots didn't explode out of my head during the night, the bump seems to have gotten smaller, and our tax refund should be deposited tomorrow.  Today was going to be great!

The first half of it actually turned out to be pretty mediocre.  Pie and I had a snowball fight in our pajamas and slippers, which was sort of fun, but then I had to yell at her for throwing icicles at the car.  Her Barbies have seriously been going through some things, which is always good for a laugh.  Especially, when I'm not in the room and I can hear her muttering words she's not allowed to use under her breath.  I keep trying to take a video of her and her dolls, but she always catches me and stops.  There was one particularly bright spot in the day, but otherwise, nothing outstanding.

Then, things began to unravel.  I baked a cake.  It wasn't for me, it was something I was being paid to do.  I left it cooling, while I made the icing.  I went into the living room for less than five minutes, and came back to find Pie standing on her stool, face stuffed full and little chocolate crumbs all down her shirt.  Before I could yell at her, she puffed her face up as big as she could, smacked her cheeks and sent partially chewed cake raining down in my kitchen.  I've never been so pissed off at her in my life.  That stunt earned her a spanking and both of us a nap.

When we woke up from the nap, I needed to run to the store because I didn't have enough cake flour to start over.  The first store I went to was out of cake flour, so I had two choices.  Deal with Walmart (which I wasn't in the mood to do) or pay twice as much as I should at the expensive supermarket.  I paid twice as much.  The time to myself improved my mood, and I thought I could get back to having a decent day.  Wrong.

My husband chose to be an extraordinary douche over a fucking cheeseburger.  He took one bite, looked at it, and threw it on the plate, exclaiming, "This is undercooked!  I can't eat."

I offered him a whole host of suggestions--trade me, I'll put it back on the grill, I'll make you something different, I'll go get you a cheeseburger from Wendy's--but none of them were good enough.  Instead, he decided the only way to handle this outrage was to stomp around, pouting and muttering to himself.  I tried to apologize (genuinely) but that was no good either.

"You know I can't eat them like that!"  (I feel the need to point out that the burger in question was not scooting across his plate or something, it was medium well, if that.)  Then he returned to his pity party, mumbling something about how his whole day was ruined.

I gave up.  "You're right.  I did it on purpose.  I woke up this morning and thought to myself, 'Self, you know would make today absolutely full of win?  Ruining it for George!  That would be spectacular!  Now, how can I make that happen?  I've got it!  I'll undercook his cheeseburger!  That'll get 'im for sure.'  Then, I laughed to myself while I imagined how awful it would be for you."

That was not the right thing to say.  Neither of our moods improved, and when he left for work, he made it seem like kissing me goodbye was some special brand of torture, right up there with having botfly lay eggs in your head of something.  I could call him to tell him I love him.  I should call him to tell him that I love him.  But I'm not going to.  He was in a mood and he took it out on me, and that's not cool.

After he left, the plan was to get Pie in the tub, put her to bed, then relax for an hour before starting a new cake.  That was delayed because, while tearing around the house like some sort of naked crack demon, she knocked a lamp down and it fell on her foot.  She's fine, but my lamp is broken. 

Right as I finally started the bath, my phone rang.  I didn't know the number, so I let it go to voicemail.  I don't know why I checked the voicemail.  I usually wait until I get a text message informing me I can't receive any new voicemails until I delete some old ones, but for some reason, I didn't.  It was my sister-in-law.  And she sounded like she'd been crying.  Fan-fucking-tastic!  I loathe calling people and we all know how I feel about my sister-in-law, but I know she's going through a really hard time, and I'm trying to be a more compassionate human being.  I forced myself to call her back.

The first thing she wanted to know is if we would buy her a carton of cigarettes because she's out but if she doesn't pay her gas bill, her heat will be shut off.  Her mom always bought her cigarettes for her.  I guess my sister-in-law is going to have to quit smoking.  Or be cold.  That's a little more compassionate than I was striving for.

After asking for smoke money, she spent an hour telling me about how much she raked in from the memorial service.  I didn't know you're supposed to get money from memorial services, but she said it was to help defray the cost.  The really great part of that is that WE paid for it.  But, that's the level of compassion I'm shooting for, so I neglected to point it out.

Then, she started crying.  There's one thing that makes me more uncomfortable than phones, and that's crying people.  I mean, she's perfectly justified in crying, I'm sure I would be too, but I just don't know how to react to other people crying.  I never know what to say, so just keep repeating stupid things and making the whole encounter even more awkward.  This was no exception.  I really do feel bad for her, but I spent the whole time wishing she'd call one of her friends or something.  Finally one of her kids fell down the stairs and she had to go.

And that's where we're at now.  Pie's angry because she didn't get her bath, but I sort of look at that like I'd have had more time if I didn't have to start the cake over.  My head hurts and I'm just ready for today to be done.  I guess the upside is that at this very moment, in my kitchen, there's a whole chocolate cake, minus only a child-sized fistful from the middle, with my name on it!

Fantastic News! I (Probably) Do Not Have a Botfly Larva in My Head!

It's been a quiet evening, with Pie in bed (hers!) at a reasonable hour for a change, so I thought I'd relax and see what the internets have to offer tonight.  The first thing I saw was this:

 

Yay! Friends who understand the joys of parasites FTW!

That was a truly horrific thought.  How had I completely overlooked that possibility?  I mean, was there something tunneling through my head at that very moment!?  I woke George up.  Again.

"Bean!  Wake up!"

"What?"  He was far more irritable this time than last, probably because it's almost time for him to go to work, and without even hearing what I had to say, he knew it was something utterly nonsensical.

"I need you to check my head for parasites."

"Like...  lice?"  That was actually a reasonable question.  Every time I get my hair cut, I go through a paranoid phase where I'm convinced I picked up lice.

"No.  Not like that.  Like botfly larvae."

"You don't have a botfly in your head."

"I could.  Do you want a giant worm coming out of my scalp while we're sleeping?  It could happen, you know."  It took me a few minutes of arguing, but he finally agreed to check my head.  That was really awesome of him, because I know he thought I was just being ridiculous.  I'll have to make sure he's paid back for this.

He thoroughly checked the whole bump for an opening, but couldn't find one, nor could he see or feel anything moving.  Just to be safe, we went outside and he held a lit cigarette next to my head for a while.  Nothing came out, so I'm pretty sure I'm safe.  I'm still going to cover the whole thing in Vaseline before I go to bed tonight.

As happy as I am not to have fly larvae in my head, I am disappointed about not getting to go on Discovery Science.  I would have said hi to both of you.  Since I've lost that opportunity, I figured I should at least write another blog entry in your honor.

What Happened to My Head?

I woke up this morning with a horrible, throbbing pain on the left side of my head.  Not like a headache, but like I'd been struck with something.  Really hard.  What the hell?  When it didn't go away, I reached up to investigate and found something disturbing--a huge bump!  The circumference is about that of a standard salad dressing lid and it's raised about a centimeter off of my scalp.  The bump itself isn't really out of the ordinary, but the fact that I have no idea what I did or when I did it really freaked me out.  I woke George up.

"Bean!  Wake up!"  He rolled away from me and snuggled deeper under the comforter.  "Bean, seriously.  I need you to feel something."

"Not right now, I'm still sleeping," he half mumbled.

"No, there's something wrong with my head."  Somewhere between irritated and amused ("Don't even say it!") he finally sat up.  I took his hand and pushed it to the bump.

"What the hell did you do?"

"I don't know.  I just woke up and it was like that."

He couldn't see much through all of my hair, which is disappointing because I really wanted to take a picture.  I have a weird thing about thinking others are as fascinated by my wounds as I am, especially ones that can't be explained.  If I'm going to hurt myself, I should at least be able to share that with the internet.

I eyed George suspiciously.  "Did you hit me with something while I was sleeping?"

He just rolled his eyes and went back to bed.  I still have no idea how this happened.  I considered the possibility that it happened last week, when I thought I could drink like a college student, but surely I'd have noticed it before now, so I don't think that's the case.  Or maybe I hit my head hard enough to not remember hitting it, but then, that would have merited a trip to the emergency room, at least, and I like to think I'm not that negligent about my health.  I can only think of two other possibilities:

1.  George did, in fact, hit me with something while I was asleep.  There's no motive (other than the fact that I think it would be really funny to hit me with something while I'm sleeping) and I can't think of a single way that would benefit him, but I can't rule it out completely.

2.  The stylist did something under the guise of giving me an outstanding haircut and I was too distracted to notice.

Actually, now that I think about it, there's a third prospect, and it's the most likely.  Pie did it.  I don't know whether it was on on purpose of accidental, but I'd be willing to bet it was Pie.  What I can't figure out is how I didn't wake up.

I'm a Foot Shorter!

I got my hair cut today.  I have to straighten my hair before getting it cut, because if I don't, I always end up with a stylist who thinks they know my hair better than I do and wants to do all kinds of weird shit with it.  I walk out looking like something out of a bad 80's music video or with something resembling a mullet that takes months to grow out.  I guess I could find a regular stylist, but that would require making an appointment.  Making appointments is an activity I expect to experience in hell.  Also, I'm too cheap.  Straightening it and having them cut it dry seems to work without any of that other nonsense.

Once it was straight, I was shocked at how long it had gotten.  I tried to figure out the last time I'd had it cut, and I think it was something like two years ago.  I usually just put some overpriced oily substance in it and let it do its thing, so this stuff tends to slip my mind.  It springs up to half it's original length and we're cool.  Except once it was straight, it just looked gross.

So, I went down to the Great Clips and had them take off...  wait for it...  a foot of hair.  Yep, a whole foot!  I wasn't going to put real pictures (besides my creepy eye) here, but I'm feeling reasonably pretty, and I'm excited about my haircut, so what the hell.

It's me!!

Okay, using that one really makes no sense, since you can't even see my hair, but it's George's favorite, and he told me to post it.  So, there it is.  And one more, just for the hair!

  I have no idea what's up with the weird lighting here.

I have a lot of hair.  Keep in mind that this is after removing a foot of it.  There's still another whole foot and half from the roots to the tips of the longest layer.  Scary, huh?  (On another note, I'm not sure why it looks red in that picture.  Must be the funny lighting.)  That got me thinking.  If I feel this great after losing one foot of hair, how great would it feel to lose 70 feet of it!?  I tried to talk to George about this, but he just asked me if the lead paint dust was getting to be too much.  He's also disappointed that we're one foot farther from me being able to tie him up with my hair.  I've yet to burst the bubble that that's never going to happen anyway, if only because I don't want that much hair.

I'm actually a little embarrassed to admit I've spent way too much time thinking about this in general, but I've always wondered if (hope I'm not ruining this for anyone) Rapunzel had any less than positive feelings about having all her hair cut off.  After today, I've decided that no, she didn't.  In fact, that probably made her love Flynn even more.  I know I wanted to kiss the woman who cut my hair off, and I'd never even seen her before today.

That happy look in her eyes?  It's not because he's alive, it's because she realized she doesn't have a headache anymore.  She thought that was just part of life.  No wonder she got interested in the sex shortly after.

Or maybe the magic flower prevented headaches.  It apparently granted her the power to walk upright despite all that extra weight.  Also, hair, on average, grows half an inch a month.  The magic flower must have made it grow faster, otherwise she'd have been in midlife crisis territory by the time it got that long.  And that's not even getting into how it stayed so healthy.  I mean, half of mine was disgusting after only two years.  And clean!  Look at all the stuff they walked through!  Oh, and no way would normal hair dry that quickly.  Mine doesn't dry completely between showers and I only have a foot and a half.

Okay, I guess I should quit while I'm ahead.  Or, perhaps, only slightly behind.  I think I'll go brush my hair.  Tomorrow's goal?  Get lead levels checked.

We Still Haven't Mastered the "Walk Away" Part

I had a whole post typed out, but it was stupid, so I deleted it.  I'm back, I'm exhausted, I had a fantastic time.  My husband is awesome.  We paid for the trip and came home $75 ahead.  Got a flat tire on the way home and had to make most of the drive on a donut.  In a blizzard.  That sucked, but otherwise, everything was perfect.  Hope all of you had as spectacular of a weekend as I did!

I Really Should Have Bought a Better Gift...

I spent most of the day between a Nyquil coma and a haze of particularly disturbing dreams, but I'm now awake, and feeling (mostly) better.  That's fantastic news because my ridiculously amazing husband planned a surprise trip for our anniversary!  In two hours, I'll be throwing money we don't have at a blackjack dealer, and it's going to be fantastic!  I'll drink scotch.  And smoke Marlboros with my long, skinny cigarette holder that George absolutely hates, but bought me anyway, just because he's the best ever.  He booked a massage for me.  We can even have sex in the room we're going to sleep in, rather than sneaking off to the guest room because, yet again, the child fell asleep on the floor.  Spectacular!  And with a little luck, the trip will pay for itself.  Probably not, but I can still hope.

I'm just excited for the surprise.  I was just complaining the other day that no one has ever thrown me a surprise party.  Every year, right after my birthday, I tell both George and my mom that the following year, I'd like a surprise party.  And I wait.  And my anticipation grows as the months pass.  And in the weeks before, I know this is the year, this year, I will get my surprise party!  But I never do, and it makes me all sad and bitter, when really, at this point in my life, I should just be happy I still look forward to my birthdays.  Anyway, I guess this isn't the same as a surprise party, but it's still really fantastic!

Not only that, but this means another year has gone by without my husband deciding he can't stand me anymore.  Not that I was expecting him to or anything--I am an excellent wife.

I'm a bit concerned about how Pie will handle this.  Not stay home worried or anything, just worried about the level of clingy she'll exhibit when we get home.  Sleepovers are relatively new for her, starting a couple months after her third birthday.  They're always fine, but they've always been upon her request--this time, she's being dropped off without her input.  Also, this will be the first time we'll be gone for two nights, rather than just one.  She adores my parents and will be fine, I just keep having flashbacks to the two days after her first sleepover.  That was a big mess of refusal to let me go anywhere, even to the bathroom, accompanied by shrieks of, "YOU LEAV-ED ME!" any time I wasn't in her direct field of vision.  They're going to the movies tonight though, so that should help.

Man, I was really hoping to catch up on comments and everything too, but I'm getting the we-needed-to-leave-20-minutes-ago look, so I guess it's time.  I still don't have a laptop (although, I think I found the one I'm going to order) so, I just won't be around for a few days.  Under any other circumstances, that would really suck, but I can't even be unhappy about that right now!  So yeah, happy anniversary to me and awesome sauce husband, and happy rest of the weekend to all of you!  Wish us luck!

I Hate Being Sick

Who can drink like a rockstar, completely avoid a hangover, but end up at the complete mercy of the flu two days later?  Me, apparently.  I really wanted to post something about how much I hate being sick, but now that I've started, I realize that even typing is painful.  And, it's really too cold to be awake.  I'm going back to bed.