it will grow back

I was rudely awakened this morning by snot. Yes, that's right, snot. You know, snot. Green ookie crap. Or, as Lemony Child is prone to calling it, nose glue. I'll spare you the goopity green details, but I will tell you this...when the Sinex stops working, you stop sleeping.

This all happened at 5:17 a.m. The sun isn't even up then. I was not happy. Then I realized I was on the couch. Freezing. With a dog sprawled across my knees. I was even less happy. When I remembered Mr. Lemony telling me my coughing was driving him "wonky crazy insane mad, I tell you!" and leaving bed for the couch, I was pissed. Excuse me, Mr. I Promise To Love You In Sickness and in Health, why am I the one being banished from the queen-sized, pillow-topped haven? I'm sick. I can't breathe. I have a cold! Whatever happened to, "Oh, honey, I'm so sorry you're feeling so awful and having such a hard time getting to sleep. Why don't I go downstairs so you can spread out and be comfy? Do you need anything?"

Oh, yeah, I forgot...I married a caveman.

Anyway.

When the clock on the DVR hit 5:47 I knew it was hopeless. I rolled off the couch, disturbing the dog in the process (you think you're crabby in the morning? ever disturb a 60 pound snoring mutt??), and crawled to the kitchen to start coffee.

There are no words to convey my utter annoyance at my head feeling six billion times its normal size without the benefit of fifth of tequila and a hangover, by the way.

I forgot to put a filter in the coffee machine. It made a mess. I didn't cry.

Now, today is St. Patrick's Day. That doesn't really mean much to me, the Brit who married the Mediterranean guy, but it means something to some dear friends of mine, and they celebrate with a party every year. We are always invited, and we are enthusiastic participants in the brisket and stout fest they put on. What's not to love about friends, food, and beer, right? So even though I felt like death on toast, I was determined to make it to the party.

I'll lay low, I said. I'll make an easy dessert instead of a six-layered green cake, and I'll make sure the Sinex doesn't get the chance to lapse and cement my nose shut again. It'll be fine. It's just a cold. You'll be FINE.

I took a shower. I got shampoo in my eye. I didn't cry.

Deciding that even an easy dessert would require a trip to the grocery store, I made a list, put on make-up, packed Lemony Child into the van and drove the whole three miles to the grocery store.

I got out of the van. I reached for my purse. It wasn't there. I didn't cry.

I drove back home, grabbed the purse from the back of the door I exited when I left the house, and drove back to the grocery store. Lemony Child and I went up and down the aisles, picking out things like eggs and bananas and Cheetos with great care. We picked the shortest line, paid $143.88 for eggs, bananas, and Cheetos, and drove the three miles back home.

I got out of the van. I reached for my purse. It wasn't there. I didn't cry.

We drove back to the grocery store, where the offending purse was found sitting exactly where I'd left it...in the top of the grocery cart, in the carriage corral, next to the giant red trash can.

Home again, Lemony Child helped me lug the eggs, bananas, and Cheetos into the house. She put the things she could away while I made her lunch. She ate while I started the easy dessert. Graham cracker crumbs. Butter. Sugar. Two 8-ounce packages of cream cheese...two 8-ounce packages...no, that's butter...and that's a banana...

WHERE'S THE SECOND BLOODY BLOCK OF CREAM CHEESE??!??

Nowhere to be found. I didn't cry.

Back to the grocery store we went, and I wondered if a person could run out of gas if the only thing they ever did was drive 3 miles to the store...3 miles home...3 miles to the store...3 miles home...

With the second bloody block of cream cheese softened and in the bowl with the other bloody block of cream cheese, a cup of sugar, and some vanilla, I plugged in my handy-dandy hand mixer and started to mix it all together. Ahhhh, fattening food...which I won't even get to taste because my cemented shut nose is interfering with my taste buds. The bastard.

Whirring, stirring, humming along...but wait...

SPARKS! SHOOTING OUT OF THE HANDY-DANDY HAND MIXER! I MUST LOOK TO SEE EXACTLY WHERE THEY ARE SHOOTING FROM!!!

So, that's what I did. I looked. And promptly got my hair twisted into the handy-dandy little contraption.

(no, i'm not kidding)

So there I was, my hair tangled impossibly around an electrical appliance that isn't even remotely sexy, cream cheese and sugar dripping onto my shoulder. What do you do in that situation? Let me tell you...

"are you fucking kidding me? is this a joke? how do you think you're going to untwist yourself from this damned fucking machine...turn IT OFF YOU MORON!!"

That's what you do in that situation.

I had to cut my hair. My handy-dandy hand mixer is toast. I didn't cry.

I made the dessert (not so easy with just a wooden spoon), put it in the fridge, and chipped hardened cream cheese out of my hair.

So now, I have to get ready to go to this party. I hate this party. This party sucks. And my friends suck, too. Because, you know, it's their fault I had to lop a machine out of my hair. I wouldn't have been making the easy dessert if not for them. I'm out of Sinex. My car has no gas in it. I'm tired. And my head is still six billion times too big.

BUT!

I didn't cry.

Lemony Child couldn't find her striped socks a few mintues ago.

She cried.