Wednesday, November 28, 2012

When the Day Starts with a Bucket, it Ends with a Whimper

My day technically began at 3:49 a.m. Unpleasant at best, Dear Readers. When the child waking me up adds that there may be a need for the bucket? Shit just got real. REALLY unpleasant.

The good news is that Princess has yet to use the bucket. Why yes, that sound IS me knocking on wood. The bad news is that I'm tired, and my lady organs are trying to kill me, and not softly with a song either. Just kill me with pain and cramping and agony that normally requires an anesthesiologist. Fun fact: anesthesiologists go to school for a long-ass time. I know this because The Man grilled one the last time he was recovering from the aforementioned good doctor's medical mojo.

It's weird, it's like I can't get anything done. Maybe because I'm exhausted and in pain and bloated and reduced to wearing a purple velour track suit like a fancy mob wife. Only with less money and plastic surgery and jewelry.

My hair also isn't big enough, but that is neither here nor there. I will be working on my Jersey accent, for anyone wondering how I plan to spend my hours in pain, since I shan't be cleaning. I did start some laundry, if I recall, but that was earlier, when the coffee made productivity seem possible and before the cramps made codeine seem like a good idea.

But since I know you shadowy readers out there in Internet Land (or Russia) live for my Brilliant and dazzling Word Art, I will return later this week. Possibly victorious, or at the very least, not wearing a jewel-toned velour track suit, and/or carting buckets around the house.

 Until then, Readers, Salut! (Or whatever one shouts while downing painkillers.)

Comments, questions, having a wonderful Wednesday?


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