No post last night.
Y’all can blame the migraine that kicked me in the knees, brought me to the brink of death, and then spit me back out.
Yesterday started early for us, because at 5:20 in the morning Cat 1 decided to go through all the drama and fanfare that produces a steaming loaf of compressed hair and partially-digested cat food. Picture Puss ‘N Boots hacking up the hairball in Shrek 2, but without the Spanish accent, because Cat 1 speaks with more of a crime family undertone.
A lot like the Godfather did.
I am a morning person by nature, but morning is a word that is defined as post-5:30 for me. Anything BEFORE 5:30 is still considered to be THE MIDDLE OF THE STINKING NIGHT.
A hairball at 5:20 is still nighttime, people, and there I was, with a roll of Bounty in one hand and my Clorox Clean-Up Spray in the other hand, while Hubs pulled a pillow over his head, because Hubs CAN! NOT! do the puke, no matter WHO or WHAT spews it.
So that was how we got our morning rolling. I banged out the housework, which I had neglected the day before due to SPONTANEOUS PEDICURE and SHOE SHOPPING and an understanding with Hubs that apparently one $40 pedicure equals FOUR TIRES WITH THICK TREAD AND BURN-OUT CAPABILITIES FOR HIM.
I attacked our walk-in closet, because OH MY WORD! I still had the faded, denim-blue chambray shirt that I bought at The Gap in 1992, and no one really wears those with their acid washed jeans any more. Pity. Plus, I had a pair of bright yellow (and by bright yellow, I mean a lemon on color steroids) socks that can be pulled clear up to the knees and were covered with cartoon illustrations of school buses and stick-figure children. I can’t, for the life of me, even remember WHERE I got those socks, or (more importantly!) WHY, but I have had them for years, and yesterday was the day to say good-bye to them.
I was working like a mad woman in the closet, when I realized that GOODNESS! I was a bit hungry, seeing as how it was pushing 3:00, and low! I hadn’t eaten lunch because I had the eye of the tiger and was completely focused on a full closet overhaul, as I contemplated hanging onto a 1989 Shaker sweater, wondering if it would ever come back in style.
So I stopped, and I made a quick bite, which I paired with a cup of Starbucks Via coffee loaded with French Vanilla Coffee Mate, and I sat down with my meal at the computer to check the email. And somewhere between an email that said NEED CHEAP VIAGRA? and another one that said ENORMOUS SALE AT ABERCROMBIE KIDS, the migraine swooped up the back of my head and left me breathless. It hit like lightning, and it sucker-punched me in a matter of QUICK SECONDS.
The cute neighbor boy was here, and he was encouraging the boy to PLEASE! GET OUT OF YOUR PAJAMAS, SINCE IT’S 3:15 IN THE AFTERNOON, AND COME RIDE YOUR BIKE WHILE I RIDE MY SCOOTER OUTSIDE. The boy made short work of leaving his pajama bottoms and bathrobe, which he’d been wearing since he got up because HELLO, SUMMER VACATION, on the bathroom floor, as he dashed out the door in shorts and a T-shirt, and I crawled to the sofa, where I curled into the fetal position and let the migraine’s nausea overwhelm me.
My migraines are NOT about the pain in the head. The pain is minimal. It’s the nausea that comes WITH THE MIGRAINES that puts me on the floor, and yesterday was no exception. It was like I’d ridden the Tilt-a-Whirl while at sea, so that I was under the influence of a full-on, cheap-carnival-ride dizziness paired with seasickness.
So, you know. Good times.
Eventually the boys came back inside, and I began to realize that I would soon be throwing up. I don’t know about y’all, but throwing up in front of company (even if it is just the cute neighbor boy) has never been in a top position on my list of favorite things to do. I kept moaning out in a whisper that no one could hear, “Go. Out. Side.”
And then the cute neighbor boy’s mama texted me. As I focused my spinning eyeballs on my iPhone, I realized that she wanted her son to come home and get ready for football camp. I pushed enough buttons to say “HDND DDXU KWERR ALVJP” back at her. Honestly, I have no idea what I typed, because looking at the screen while I did so was threatening to send me, on a one-way ticket, straight to the floor in front of the toilet. I do remember blurting out, “Neighbor kid. Go home. Football camp. Get ready.”
And the cute neighbor boy, who is the most well-behaved friend the boy has, DID! NOT! MIND! ME! Couldn’t he see that I needed to puke WITHOUT him inside of my house, where I would permanently traumatize him for the rest of his life, so that he’d look in horror at the boy and ask, “What is wrong with your mom, Dude?!”
His mama texted again and said, “I can drive the carpool to football camp.”
Well, that was certainly good news, because ME driving the boys to football camp would have ended up in me being pulled over and given a series of tests, roadside, that are usually reserved for those under a strong influence of Captain Morgan, while I leaned over and tried not to throw up on the officer’s shoes.
So I hacked out again, “Neighbor. Home. Boy. His mom. Drive. Football camp. Get!”
The cute neighbor boy USUALLY minds like the kids did in Little House on the Prairie, because he’s such a perfect gem, but yesterday afternoon, he and the boy kept right on examining the boy’s iPod content, so I finally gave in. I shuffled to the bathroom while biting my lip, and the cute neighbor boy FINALLY SAID, “Boy, come over to my house when you get your cleats on, so we can head to football,” and then he was gone.
And I immediately leaned over my toilet and did EXACTLY what Cat 1 had done on my bedroom floor that morning.
Minus all the hair.
And also the partially-digest cat food.
So then I pushed eighteen piles of clothes that had been pulled out of the closet and placed on my bed onto the floor, and I got INTO bed.
At 4:00 in the afternoon.
The boy kept pacing, asking if I was okay, and I assured him that Mama would be fine, once someone smacked me in the head with a sledgehammer and ended it all. The next thing I knew, he was on the phone with the cute neighbor boy’s mom, and I heard him say, “I’m skipping football camp. My mom is real sick, and she’s worrying me, and I’m staying home with her until my dad gets off work, so I don’t need a ride.”
There was no changing the boy’s mind, and I was too dizzy with the nausea to want to talk much.
And that’s when he piled eight blankets on top of me, even though it was a balmy 97 degrees outside, and tried to shove a thermometer into my mouth. I assured him that I didn’t need my temperature taken, and the blankets were going to kill me with all the heat. So he wrapped his ice pack from his school lunch box (his very hard, very unbendable, very solid ice pack) in a dish towel and plunked it down on my forehead, so that it felt like I had a cold rock with me. And then he got one of the Diary of a Wimpy Kid books, and he hopped up onto our bed to read out loud to me.
Precious times, people. I kept telling myself, “He won’t do this when he’s nineteen and I’m sick,” even though all I really wanted was a darkened bedroom and some SILENCE. I just held his hand while he read, and I tried not to throw up in bed.
And then Hubs came home.
I heard the boy whisper, “Mom’s real sick, Dad. I’m babysitting her.”
That was right before Hubs flopped on the bed and bellowed, “Sick, huh? What’s wrong? And why do we have PILES AND PILES OF CLOTHES on the bedroom floor? Why is the closet EMPTY?” And then he grabbed a lock of my hair, twirled it like an ox’s tail, and shoved the end of it up my nose.
I do love my boys.
Eventually I talked them into heading out to find themselves some dinner, so they set off for Jimmy John’s, which is their kitchen away from home these days. While they were out, Cat 1 jumped up on the bed and said, “Oh! We’re going to bed REALLY EARLY tonight, are we? Just let me make a quick visit to the litter box, because I actually drank all the water out of the bottom of the houseplants, what with it being watering day and all, and my bladder’s about to burst. I’ll be back.”
And she came back alright. She crawled up on my pillow and very gingerly settled herself around my neck like a scarf, as she said, “Just pretend I’m that fancy rice bag you microwave sometimes and use as a heating pad.”
And that, people, is exactly how Hubs found us when he returned with the boy. I whispered, “The cat is smothering me.”
Hubs said, “Dang it, Mama. She’s a cat, not a doctor.” And then he laughed and said, “That’s one of the two lines I know from Star Trek. Sort of. I never was a Trekkie.”
Later last night, after the sun had set, I got out of bed and shuffled to the kitchen, where Hubs was making a marinade for some chicken to grill for dinner today. Our kitchen smelled like fire, and I told him so.
“This kitchen smells like an arson crime scene.”
“Thank you. It’s the combination of jalapeno peppers and hot sauce that I just invented for a marinade. I think it smells FANTASTIC!”
“It’s going to blow up when you put it on the grill.”
“Thank you. If your chicken DOESN’T explode, you’ve got the recipe all wrong.”
With that, I told Hubs to find the boy, since he was still outside playing in the dark, and then I went back to bed.
It was the worst night’s sleep I’ve had in a dozen years. I tossed and I turned, and I turned and I tossed, and I paced the house, and then sometime around 5:00 this morning (so clearly, the MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT!), I had a dream that I was Harry Potter’s cousin, and he and I were catching rainbows out of the sky, squeezing them down to little tiny pieces, and shoving them into potion jars to be used for…what? I don’t know. The dream wasn’t that specific.
When I told Hubs about the dream this morning (post-5:30, when it was actually MORNING), he looked at me and burst out laughing. And then he said, “I wouldn’t tell anyone about that dream. It’s a little weird, and it might make people think you’re a bit of an unstable nut.”
So be it.
It’s on the World Wide Web now.
So yes, people. Somewhere between getting smacked with the migraine and the nausea, and throwing up, and having eight blankets piled on me just before story hour started, and having my hair poked up my nose, and smelling fire in the kitchen, which turned out to be Hubs’ secret poultry marinade, and wearing a cat scarf, I didn’t get a blog post up last night.
I’d get a written doctor’s excuse, but Cat 1 is a cat; she’s not a doctor.
Happy Wednesday night, people.