Written @ 8:41 a.m. on 2007-11-04
I'm alive, only I'm an alien
I haven't written in like, four days, people! Did you wonder if I was dead? Decomposing right here on my cheap, fuzzy carpet?
Well, I'm not! My ex had a moment of intense insanity, which was handled, and he (after some truly inexcusable behavior) took the children for his first full weekend visit since April. Hooray and Huzzah! I just hope that they are ok, but I'm trying to not be neurotic on this one. (There's a first, Hil!) I'm envisioning lots of money being spent on them and lots of spoiling going on, and lots of french fries being fed to them. And that's ok.
I had friends over yesterday! Diaryland friends, who perhaps you know...Debsiobhan, and LAthesage, and LA's strong man, Mick. They were all here live and in-person! They sat on my white ikea couches! I'll never wash them again. Man, did those people make me laugh. I was crying at one point from laughing so hard. Deb had to give me a tissue. I never get to hang out with intelligent women, you know, so this was an extra special treat for me. The conversation came out at 10,000 words per minute, and I think we astounded Mick with how unfiltered, live and unplugged we could be. He chuckled and said,"Man, what would you ladies be saying if I WASN'T here?" and we all chorused in unison,"Oh, the same! We don't hold anything back!" I am so blessed to have you all as friends. Thanks for being there!
Last night was supposed to be a big party night with B, but halfway into my turkey dinner at the diner, I was struck with the most excruciating sinus headache of my life. The blinding, throwing up, knife in your brain kind, so B. sweetly had me in bed my eleven, where I was curled into a fetal position and praying that I wasn't having an anuerism. Bummer.
Today, I still feel a bit squishy in the face, but nothing too bad. I think there is something weird in my anatomy, because I never, ever get a stuffy nose. I get stuffy sinuses and ears. I might be an alien.That would explain a lot.
T minus nine hours before the children return. What will I do? Laundry? Or plot my revolution? Decisions, decisions.