“They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains,” he remarked with a smile.
– Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, A Study in Scarlet
I must be a freaking genius because I am a hobbled-up woman this morning. My head and neck feel as if they are made from broken glass. Most concerning is the ticklish feeling I am getting around the corners of my eyes. It might be a migraine in the making. Might not. Not taking any chances, either way. I’ve swallowed a handful of Advil and Excedrine. We’ll see who laughs last, headache.
Oh, for a bed that didn’t cause this sort of misery!
Our bed is a ten year old pillow top. At the time of purchase, it was very nice. However, neither of us weighs the same as a fairy’s fart – so the coils have all been mashed down into a huge divot1 in the center.
OK. Probably not this big. But close!
Personally, I would love one of those Tempur-Pedics. The kind where your sleeping partner can land the fucking shuttle on the bed and not upset a glass of wine, much less disturb your snoozing self. Unfortunately, those things cost more than I can afford at this time. Maybe at any time. I’ve seen cars go for less. Ah, me. Maybe when I am rich famous2?
Dream a little dream...
1 – To get the proper emotion behind that sentence, say it like the father from So I Married an Axe Murderer. The bit where he’s talking about Heed and his huge pillow. 2 – *snerk*giggle*
Title is from William Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part Two
I sincerely hope that the door creaking open and quickly shut downstairs was my kid. You can’t see it, but I am totally making a scaredy-face.
Hello? Someone there?
I have no real insights or funnies today, unfortunately. I’m too freaking tired. Between travel and nighttime coughing – either my own or Mister Man’s – I haven’t gotten a decent night’s sleep in a while. I miss the sleep I had when I was a kid. Do y’all remember that sort of sleep? Where you just passed out in whatever position you happened to be in, and then slept all the way through until someone woke you up? I keep wanting to tell the Girl that she should cherish it now – in just a few short years, it will all go away. I’m pretty sure she would use it to argue against getting up in the morning for school, though. No way I’m handing her any ammunition for the ongoing Morning Skirmishes.
Ready the cannons! Let loose the Hounds of Laundry!
This morning’s battle lines were actually over socks instead of snooze. I won’t get into many details except to say that wearing yesterday’s (or the day before that’s) socks Is Not Acceptable and no, we are not.discussing.this.goputonCLEANSOCKSNOW!!!
Ahem.
Sorry ‘bout that.
One of these days, I will get through a morning routine without a drama flare or a puppy-dog lip quiver or any sort of envelope pushing. Because that would be freaking awesome. I do realize that it is just the stage she’s at – that she is pushing boundaries because her endocrine system is not only secreting enough hormones to fell an elephant, but her brain is making structural changes as well. Doesn’t make it ANY easier when she pushes yet another shiny, candy-like button in my brain.
I use the knowledge like other parents might use counting:
“One…two…three…structural changes….five…pituitary out of control….seven…mass hysteria, dogs and cats living together….”
I’m positive that even the Buddha was a terrible teen; I’m sure he rolled his eyes and stared moodily at the ceiling all the while thinking that no one understood him.
Bitch, you want me to wear WHAT?
EVERYbody goes through it. The trick is to continue to enforce the rules without forgetting what being that age was like. I recall being twelve1. It sucked. You couldn’t do half the stuff you wanted because you weren’t old enough – and yet, you were expected to start taking on more responsibilities. Also? The homework load got geometrically bigger as well as more difficult. All of this while you’re experiencing emotions that careen out of control, from rage to sobbing in 4.2 nanoseconds.
Being a tween/teen is rough. I truly grok. I still want you to wear clean socks. Every day.
Why? Because I’m your Mom and I want the best for you. Which includes you not smelling like moldy corn chips. So go put on the clean socks – there’s some in your drawers – right now. Hup, hup, hup.
1 – For the record, my parents said that twelve is “when you lost your damn mind.” I’m sure that they’re right.
My 42nd birthday is less than a month away. On the one hand – ew, 42.
On the other – hey! I’ll be The Answer for the entirety of 20121.
I’m actually not fazed by the upcoming calamity natal event. Truth to tell, I am a little more disconcerted by the odor coming from the kitty room. Holy vile fetor, Batman!
In just over a decade, I will be able to clear out a house with just one wee fart.
Thank goodness its trash day. That’s the one thing that you never hear about when you first adopt that wiggly little black kitten. At the time, all you can think is “ohlookitthefuzzywittlekitty!” But the catbox smell once she hits her geriatric years could knock as buzzard off a honeywagon2.
I should probably cut her some slack. After all, she’s approaching eleventy-billion in human years. I bet my bowels won’t be so sweet when I am her age.
What was I talking about again?
Oh, yeah. The end of the world.
How the heck did I manage to get this far without blowing something u… Hmm. What I mean to say is, I can’t believe I made it to 42. I sincerely thought that I would be dead by now. There’s probably some psychological reason that teens/young adults cannot fathom being any older than 30. Especially gothy teen/young adults who write bad poetry. However, right as I made the turn into my thirties, the Girl was born. I’ve been too busy since then to contemplate writing any exceptionally dismal poetry about caves.
I am DEEPLY amused by the fact that Googling "dank & dismal cave" returns this image as one of the hits.
Probably for the best. My poetry – all of it – was never terribly good. Lots of gloomy references and more adjectives than the traffic could bear. Emily Dickenson would’ve wept3.
1 – In very fact, my birthday – the day I turn 43 – is the end of the world, according to certain prophets and other lunatics. Consider this your warning: The chocolate had better be phenomenal, or POOF! No more world for you. 2 – You will never guess where I heard that particular phrase. 3 – Not in a good way, either.
The Process 