Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Time For Some Good Old Fashioned Whining
This post could also be titled "SOMEBODY PUNCH ME IN THE F*CKING THYROID".
Is there another good word for TIRED, because I feel like I use that one to death.
Beat? Spent? Knackered (that's a British one)? Cream Crackered (some insane British version of 'knackered')? Nah, I like TIRED. It's very to-the-point.
Anyhow, I have been tired since Friday. As you may recall, I was trying to rediscover my INNER HOOCHIE (officially dead), with some girlfriends. I thought staying up till 2:00 AM was OUTRAGEOUS. Picture me, practically RUNNING for a cab, once I realised it was 1:30. However, my girlfriends had reports of partying down till 3:30 in the morning. Jesus. Who's the nerd in this picture?
But like I said, I've been tired since Friday. I told my sister the other day that if this tiredness continues much longer, I'll be forced to conclude the obvious: FULL BODY CANCER, and not the more reasonable answer: too many late nights peppered here and there with CRUSTY WIVES (don't feel left out: you can get the recipe for that heavenly concoction simply by scrolling down the left side bar), and other cocktails.
This morning, The Man said he would take Jack to school. This means I could stay in bed and get a little more sleep! At 7:40, this sounded VERY, VERY APPEALING. Thanks to my MOM EARS, I heard that little dickens Ella stirring up in her room at 4:45. She didn't get up yet, but once I hear her thumping around in her bed, I know it's not long before it's all over and she's up for good. Personally? I'm not interested in getting up at 5. Sorry, but since I have no freaking CROPS, or a job out in the REAL WORLD, I figure I'm not being unreasonable.
But, in case you're thinking I was drifting off into peaceful bliss there in my warm, cozy bed, think again. Sleeping in in this house actually just means "staying in bed a little longer." First I heard Jack and Ella bugging each other. Then Jack and The Man were fighting over clothing choices. Jack wanted to wear his shirt with the guitars on it. The Man wanted him to wear the shirt he'd already picked out. There was much screaming, and outrage on Jack's part, and I was lying in bed thinking; "why the hell can't the kid just wear the damn shirt HE wants to wear?!?"
Hopped out of bed, found Jack's preferred shirt in a pile of clothes on the stairs (where optimistic items live, hoping for the day they'll be returned upstairs), gave it to Jack, and MAGICALLY averted a crisis.
Then it was that usually time of the morning whereby Jack has to listen to the same 6 or 7 songs AGAIN before he has to get his stuff on and go. Today, however, started with a nice, loud rendition of "Rollover Beethoven," by Chuck Berry. *Note: Chuck Berry music is EXTREMELY ANNOYING when you're trying to get a tablespoon more sleep.
So, I got up, went to Early Years with my sister and our girls, and felt my face turning into a ball of fresh, sinking dough. What's particularly obnoxious about this Early Years location, is that one half of the gym is set up with toys and things for the little people to play with, and the other half of the gym is clearly an aerobics class now, and the only thing separating us from the make-me-want-to-knife-someone BOOM!BOOM!BOOM!BOOM! of the loud dance beat music, coupled with some overzealous instructor's "WOO! YEAH! ALRIGHT LADIES, COME ON!" is a pull-down, flimsy plastic wall. So, on the other side of that wall, there are probably lots of hot unwrinkled bods in spandex, and on our side lots of moms who looked just as tired as I.
I would totally love to go over there and say; "listen, fitness idiots, can you show some respect and turn that SH*T DOWN???"
The last thing I want to whine about is my thyroid. You know: that idiot in my neck. The last time I had a biopsy on my thyroid was hideous! Evil Dr. THOROUGH poked my neck so many times, it was bruised for a month!!! Because I'm the biggest wimp on the planet, I was relieved I wouldn't have to get THAT done for a long time.
Oh karen, you great gallumping idiot.
I have to get my neck poked A-FREAKING-GAIN. Yeah, that's right. My stupid, ugly lumpy lumps fall into the grey area of needle biopsies. This is basically like saying; "hmmm..this thing looks weird. We can't tell if it's cancer, and we can't tell if it's not cancer, so let's poke your neck 7 more times and see if we can tell one way or another, kay? Sound super fun?"
Two months people, and I have to do it all over again. Legendary pity party. Legendary.
My sister says that I should tell my thyroid; "look, this relationship clearly isn't working out. You're going to have to GO," and evict the f$cker.
What would you guys do? Avoid surgery and try to hang on to your vital organ, or yank that thing out and replace it with medication for the rest of your life?!?
Blech. karen need a nap.
Click here for me while I have a nap