Poor Pitiful Pearl
Posted on May 12th, 2012
I hate Mother’s Day. I want it to be over. (I’m getting pretty high in the Google rankings for “i hate mother’s day,” too.) I alternate between being weepy and feeling sorry for myself and feeling angry. Not my favorite emotional states.
My husband is SICK. Like has done nothing but sleep for three days sick. Like chugging Nyquil every four hours-sick. Like I have to go to the store and go past all the Mother’s Day displays and not cry to get the Nyquil-sick.
This comes on the end of Pea being SICK. Like endless rivulets of snot sick (something I haven’t seen from her in a long time) and grouchy and easily exhausted sick.
So far, I am not sick. (I paid those dues — I hope this is the same virus, anyway.) This is good, especially since I haven’t gotten more than six hours of sleep in a long time, and usually it’s been closer to four. Immune system? It’s busy fighting the allergy war. (Which, I could have told it, is about as useful as the war on drugs and teaching abstinence.)
It’s hot (for us) here. Today it was 82, and tomorrow it’s supposed to be 87. 86 Monday. We live in a place where central air is rare, and while we do have an a/c unit downstairs (because of a wall of east-facing windows, it’s almost always hotter there than upstairs), lots of shade trees, and good circulation, hot is hot. And I don’t do heat well.
I was happy this evening when it got cool enough to open the windows upstairs — only to discover it smells like garbage outside. FABULOUS. I make up for my lack of heat tolerance with an exceptionally keen sense of smell. It was not a good trade.
In my exuberance to open those windows, I — with characteristic grace — tripped on a fan in my office and stuck two of my toes into the blades: the big toe and the third toe. Fortunately, I have toes of steel (or at least stronger than plastic) and a great pedicure, so all it really did was rip the edges of my toenails off and ruin the pedicure. And I have some abrasions on my leg, but whatever. No blood.
This afternoon in the mail, I had the new issue of Foreign Affairs, nothing from the historical society I was looking forward to — and a letter announcing that someone new just bought my student loans and jacked the payments more than 3x higher and was going to move the due date up and oh, by the way, I already have a balance and it doesn’t show any of my recent payments. Right. Ha. Ha.
So I cried over my student loan statement. Sadly, it wasn’t the first time. Tomorrow, if you see a crazed redhead clutching a student loan statement and repeating over and over, “Judgment proof. Judgment proof.”? That’d be me.