Friday, Aug. 25, 2006

The Week of The Suck


Know what sucks? When my Kidlet cuts molars. Her last set, true, but still. Molars. Giant, pokey, enamel rocks ripping up through the tender, soft, nerve-ending-enriched tissue of the gums.

Scientists say that almost all of us cannot remember things before we are around age 3, because the short-to-long term memory process isn't lined out until then. I say there's probably very good reasons that we can't remember stuff from before then, and the whole process of cutting teeth is probably one of them. Who would want to remember what it's like to cut molars for the first time? Not me, and probably not my Kidlet, if this last week was any indication.

Folks, I have never seen so much mucus and saliva in my whole life. And tears -- tears of frustration, of pain, of exhaustion. My baby's face was constantly... moist and gooey. And how uncomfortable must that be?

And what sucks even more? When the acetominophen that I gave Kidlet causes her to have an allergic reaction, much like my brother had when he was a baby. The red dye, we think, causes Kidlet to act as if I slipped her about a kilo of speed stirred into a gallon of Red Bull. It took a week to nail down the cause. Holy. Spazoids. Captain.

And sucking even more than this? The lack of sleep that goes along with molar-cutting and Red-Bull-slamming, both for Kidlet, of course, and for myself. Earlier tonight, I laughed, out loud, at Spongebob. Unironically. *That's* how tired I am. And the girl keeps alternating between periods of wakefullness and collapsing into a sleeping lump.

And past that? The sucking? Comes from the sinus thing I've developed due to lack of sleep and general, overall uckiness. It's causing my voice to cut out just enough to where, when I try to make a phone call, people either think I'm a heavy breather ("Hhh *clears throat* hhhh-i. *rasp*" "Ew! Pervert!") or I end up just reverting to sign language to save what little voice I have left. And trying to read sign language through the phone is a bitch.

And more sucktastic than that? The audit we had at work that, while it seemed to come out fine, caused everyone in the building to be stressed out to their toenails. The energy was so weird there that everyone seemed to be tip-toeing around corners and hiding behind counters. Then, they'd giggle nervously and hand you a graduated cylinder, or some other random piece of glassware that happened to be in easy reach, just to have something to do with their hands. The heck? I swear, one day, I walked across the lab to get a sample, and I ended up with an empty clipboard, a plastic beaker, three pens, a sweater, and a small empty mailing box. None of which is a sample, you'll notice.

Suckier than that? Having to go to the chiropractor, the second time in a week, to deal with the fucked-upedness that is my back. And neck. And shoulders. And knees. And hips. Hell, I'm a freaking, musculo-skeletal nightmare. Stress, family history and previous injuries, make me like a chiropractic puzzle box -- pull on this over here, and this other thing gets all jacked up. Push on this over here, and I get shooting pains up my neck at random, unpredictable intervals for a whole week. My muscles aren't just taut bands -- they're bands that've been stretched to capacity, tied in knots, and left out in the sun. I'm surprised that I'm not some wrinkled old raisin-lump wheeling myself around in a wheelbarrow.

My chiropractor likes to fuss over me a bit. He probably does it to everyone, but I can't speak for all them. All I know is he gets this look on his face when I go in that's like, "You shouldn't be like this, I don't like it, I must fix it." Which, really, is a good attitude for your health care professionals to have.

But, just to get my vertebrae back where they're supposed to be? After a heat treatment, a mechanical massage and some stretching? He had to twist me all up like a pretzel, and put practically his entire body weight into the adjustment, just to get it to work. This man is not a 98-pound weakling. I feel kind of like I've been run along a washboard a few times and hung up to dry.

So, in conclusion -- suck. Suckage. The sucking of this week and other assorted topics thereof.

Blargh. The Year of The Dog ain't got nuthin' on me. This is the Week of The Suck.

saturncat at 11:49 p.m.

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