Sunday, Sucky Sunday

How did my Sunday suck? Let me count the ways.

1) As previously mentioned, I was hung over; not violently so, but I had a good slammin' headache and was nauseated all day. (Not the kind of nauseated where you don't eat all day, so even though you feel bad, you feel thin. My hangover nausea is the kind where you need to eat half a bag of potato chips and leftover sausages for breakfast.)

2) Perhaps accompanying the hangover, perhaps caused by it, or perhaps caused by my wildly fluctuating hormone levels (due to premature perimenopause and the ever-changing birth control pills and other medication I am using to treat it,) I am experiencing some really crazy post-party paranoia. I can't shake the feeling that, in my drunken state, I did something really stupid to somebody; like I was a horrible bitch to them, or I stuck my tongue in their ear, or I totally blew them off. I have called everyone I can think of, and I can't find any validation that I did anything, but I can't shake them. (And, of course, I feel more crazy when nobody else knows what I'm talking about.)

Damn, I wish I could figure out who I called a golldam fucking ashhole. If I did. Which I probably didn't. Aaaah!

3) Somewhere at the party, I lost my keys. I cannot find them, anywhere. Everything was on there - car keys, house keys, and work keys.

A perenially sucky side trip: Lowe's. I spent a good part of my afternoon there having them try to make me a new set of car keys and house keys. The house keys were fine, but neither of the car keys they made me will work.

Do you know how much it costs to have a car manufacturer make you a set of keys with a remote control, as it turns out? One hundred and sixty motherfucking dollars. That, children, is my birthday present to myself.

4) The creamy center of my day was the bike crash that OG got into with one of her little friends while I was at the store.

It was about 4:15, and I had a cart full of groceries, when The Man calls me and says, "You'd better come right home. I think [OG] has to go to the emergency room." (Remember, I had his keys, so he had no car.) So, I throw the refrigerated stuff back into the cases, and haul ass home to find OG with a split open chin and a swollen left wrist. (She's not crying, mind you, as she has the pain tolerance of an NFL linebacker.)

As I am the carrier of the insurance cards and so on, I was elected to drive her to the hospital. We got there, and were told that the rooms were full, and that there were several people ahead of her. So, we waited, and waited, and waited, her sitting there with a bloody paper towel to her chin, me holding my head and trying not to weep.

Dinnerless, bookless, and bereft of anything to do besides playing Hangman on her DoodlePro, we ended up staying there until almost 8:30 last night. (For an extremely hyperactive girl, she was a patient little trooper the whole time. Hungover Hungry Mama was about to go Incredible Hulk on those people.)

She got 10 stitches in her chin, and though the X-rays of her wrist were fine, the doctor thought she should wear a wrist brace for a week or so.

Now, I ask you, between crashing your bike and slicing open your face, having a needle stuck into your open wound and having someone sew you up with a needle, or being told that you have to wear a mildly inconvenient brace for a week, which do YOU think would set a six-year-old off into a screaming, crying fit? Yes, of course, it was the wrist brace. She cried for the whole last hour that we were there, cried all the way home, cried herself to sleep, and cried ALL THIS MORNING about the goddamn wrist brace. When I dropped her off at school - still sobbing - she would not initially go into her classroom door for fear that someone would make fun of her.

Jesus, I just don't understand irrational fears and paranoia. Where in the fuck does she get this?

Soooo....today, I'm taking the day off just to chill the fuck out, get new keys made, and take varying children to varying doctors. (And to go grocery shopping again. Two trips to the HEB in two days - near Thanksgiving? Almost more than I can stand.) I need a fucking break.

Is this 37? Are the cracks showing?