Some days are made to remind you that ice picks have a long and infamous history of extra uses.
I’ve got a husband who stumbled home today at noon with extreme dizzy-ness with an improvised barf-can taken from work where he actually vomited up all his coffee and water. Much speculation has ensued as to the cause while he has remained supine and intentionally blind.
It was hot. A double sin in the Angelina book of good rules for the earth and people and sun to follow. I live in an inferno – so this is to be expected about 8 months of the year. Still, 82° is not my friend even though that’s so much less dire than, say, 115°.
It seems I am either having random hormone flushes consistent with peri-menopausal FUN or my meds aren’t working so well or I’m just a full time BITCH now because I want to strangle people today. And yesterday. But it’s impossible that I’m PMSing because I just finished my period last week.
My child hates his new gym teacher. The honeymoon is over. She made him feel bad and almost cry at his locker because he often needs people to repeat things and she has (allegedly) accused him of just not bothering to pay attention. Apparently his math teacher hates him too (according to him). His grade has dropped to a C- because I have been timing his homework sessions and she is not giving him full credit for the homework he finishes. Which she’s perfectly in her rights to do. But Max feels like crap that his grade has dropped. Given a choice, though, he says he’d rather have the timed homework than not. We are having irreconcilable issues between his needs and school rules. There were tears. There were fears. Shit, sorry, I can’t help it if things rhyme and remind people of groups from the 80’s.
Then I compounded the sins of the day by informing my sweet son that it was shower night.
But none of this addressed my main gripe today which is that CVS is the most outrageously overpriced mecca of CRAP and I always manage to arrive during the shift of the slowest most manicured elderly lady I have ever met. There was a four person conference in which I explained what was ailin’ Philip and explained that I wanted electrolyte tablets (back in the early afternoon when Philip still thought he was suffering adversely from an electrolyte imbalance brought on by a 189 extra miles bicycled last week) and the CVS pharmacist explained to the woman phoning him from the front of the store that even if they had the tablets (they didn’t) they were likely to irritate Philip’s stomach further which might cause more vomiting. So the elderly manicure tries to convince me to buy their Pedialite suckers.
For a man who is 6’2″. Fucking electrolyte lollipops for babies. If he was indeed electrolyte deficient – how many lollypops would it take to right the balance of a robust tall man if the lollypops are made for people under 4′ tall and weighing less than 70 lbs?
There’s a math word problem in there for anyone who’s thirsty for some numbers.
I tried to explain politely that I don’t take medical advice from people with scary manicures who are trying to convince me to buy suckers for my middle aged husband. My explanations were met with expressions of great pity and concern and also the opinion that if he was vomiting up his liquids then it was pretty churlish of me to reject the lollypop cure for more liquids which will almost certainly cause more vomiting and make me the WORST WIFE EVER.
When 3 or more people in any given store get involved in a discussion with me over what I’m looking for I can’t leave the store without buying something even if they don’t have what I’m looking for. So I debated uncomfortably over the precious cost of 2 bottles of Gatorade that is cheaper to buy anywhere in town that isn’t a CVS. I felt my intestines turn and bunch up because I really didn’t want to spend so much money on neon shite when I could be sending all that extra money to the IRS to get those pimps off my shoulders. I could have just bought one Gatorade for $2.50 (a scandalous price) but I couldn’t fathom using my debit card for less than $5 so I lingered like a sociopathic ghost around the power-drink shelf until I decided to check out their sunscreens for Philip. This caused me to have a minor stroke because they have only good prices on things if you have one of their cards – otherwise you have to pay through the teeth just for their store brands.
It’s a major racket.
All this milling about scrambled my already irritable nerves. I finally decided on getting two Gatorades and then had to deal with the mournful discourse of the manicured lady.
I also bought a bunch of asparagus at Whole Foods for $7.88 because I was already undone from the anxiety and anger cocktail CVS dished up. I better fucking like my precious asparagus.
I need a vacation from my life.
I need a vacation from myself.
The last few days I have not enjoyed being me. I’m feeling itchy in my skin. I’m not meshing with anyone around me – everything everyone is saying is making me feel wrong, like a freaky old Bukowski character with boobs (but less nude). Why the fuck are so many people enchanted with*: babies, balloons, holidays, FUN, live concerts, music I hate, children, religion, parenthood, bacon, stupid diets, dogs, sunshine, fast cars, big cars, big houses, agapanthus, GAMES, Las Vegas, purebred anything, desserts, clowns, 6″ heels, sex, precious lifestyles, image, innocence, youth, porn –
Know what I’m interested in? Okay, since you asked: what old women are wearing, roses, playing favorite songs on infinite repeat, tomatoes even though I suspect they are giving me heartburn, old people, middle aged people, vintage stoves, nettles, this question: where the fuck did Bukowski go when he died?, seeing my kid grow up, the “Thriftstore” song, watching ghostly mushrooms pop up in my herb pots, packing tape, chickens, crows, pigeons, swearing, people who never have kids, boots, life without charades, and card games that burst into flames.
Some days need to be icepicked in the cornea.
*The gist of this segment of this post is to express chagrin towards myself, not at others. The question I’m fairly shouting is “WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME THAT I DON’T EVEN LIKE SUNSHINE?” and not that you all shouldn’t like sunshine. I feel grouchy and ogre-ish for not liking or being interested in what are obviously wonderful things to most of the other people I know.