I spent most of yesterday in bed, and not in a good way. The pain of my migraine was gone by 11:00-ish, but dear god in heaven I could not keep my eyes open after that. A migraine makes you exhausted after. I don't know why. I know this may be a news flash but I do not have an MD. At any rate, spent several hours in that dead, oblivious, toddler kind of sleep, where I twitched in my onesie and had a sweaty head after while I listlessly grabbed my sippy cup.
At one point, I dragged myself up and went to the post office to mail a certified letter to Poland, so I can FINALLY get paid by that place I freelanced for IN OCTOBER. So far that job I did has cost me $100 and I've made nothing. I had to send $85 to our government to request this certificate proving I'm from here, and have they seen my fashion sense and loud personality? Of course I'm from here.
And could that have been more of a nightmarish experience? They kept requesting MORE info, like I was lying, and every time I tried to fax them the info, because apparently our government is partying like it's 1989, the faxes wouldn't work, and just try CALLING A GOVERNMENT OFFICE and actually getting anyone.
Anyway, they finally believed I am American, thanks to passing an ethnocentric quiz where I proved I have no knowledge of any geography that isn't United States' geography, and sent me the damn certificaate, which I had to mail, certified, to Poland. Because the LAST thing I mailed to Poland never got there.
Aren't you glad I launched into this story? Fascinating, is what it is.
I also slothed over to Target, where I tiredly refilled my migraine meds, and I'm still paying my deductible, so $331 later I left the store and killed myself. I just got that medication 20 days ago and had to refill it again.
So my mood was sparkling when I got home and fell into another toddler nap. Maybe I was just cranky because I needed a nap. And a few Cheerios spread on my high chair tray.
By the way, that'll be the end of the toddler jokes, since I know no more toddler behavior. We've tapped the bulk of my toddler experience, right there. I think you should be impressed that I was able to observe a person and label them "toddler" and not a human between the ages of 18 months to 11 years.
Once the evening rolled around, I got out of bed again and went to pet therapy. Edsel's having father issues.
In fact, I did not take any pet to any therapy, although god knows we could all use it here in this house of hair and pain. What happened was, a few months ago I was shopping, and the person next to me in line said, "June?" and as always, since the first time that happened to me, I said, "Yes?" as though that were my real name, and what's creepy about that other than everything.
At any rate, we got to talking and the "June?" person invited me to accompany her to pet therapy, where she takes a few dogs to an old folks' home, and "old folks' home" is probably politically incorrect. Once we were there we had eskimo pies and played the jew's harp.
She invited Tallulah and Edsel, which would have been delightful. Only four hips broken this time when my dogs jumped on the elderly! Not a bad month!
So, armed with coffee at 6:00 in the afternoon, I went to pet therapy, where I met Rosie and Riley, and you will be stunned to hear I took to them. I had to elbow so many old people out of my way to pet them. GOD. Pushy.
I also met a man who'd grown up in Michigan and lived in Seattle. We were the same person, other than the part where he was 91 and male. And I met an old black guy who'd worked at the Plaza in New York and met King Hussein and Eartha Kitt. I don't think they were checking in together, but let's start a rumor that they were.
So I liked it. I liked pet therapy. The woman who invited me, who is a faithful reader, stopped short when I said something about Marvin. "Who?" she asked. "My ex-husband. Marvin." I said. "Oh, it sounded like you said another name." "I did," I told her. "I used his real name."
"Marvin's real name isn't Marvin? Don't tell me Ned isn't really Ned," she said. "He LOOKS like such a Ned!" She was stunned to hear Ned isn't Ned, and then I asked her, "Did you really think I had a friend named TinaDoris? I mean, did her parent hate her?"
"I always thought that was an unfortunate name," she said. Then she worried that my pets had fake names, too, which they do not. So anyway, in case there's anyone out there thinking my friends' names are real, they are not. They are changed to protect heaven knows what.
I guess that sums up my day, except at the very end of it, Ned, whose name is not really Ned, came over after a fancy work dinner to check on the state of my migraine and visit me in general. I like Ned. Whose name isn't really Ned.
God, doesn't a nap sound wonderful?