![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maystoneI have no idea why I'm not asleep since I've been up since early o'clock, been relatively busy, and had no nap or lie down.
I had fall down, though. Twice! Mays fall down go boom. Except that both times I managed to clutch onto something before I actually hit the floor. "You know what this means?" I mourned bitterly to Dar. "It means I can never go into a Crate&Barrel again!" Waaaaaaah! Hahahahaha. I was saying I need to wear a kind of a reverse deep sea fishing harness, except Dar coud keep me hooked up to it and reel me upright when I start to flop around. Hee! We can get her a fishing hat that has the two beer holders on it, except for her it would soda cans. Oooh, oooh! I can train a couple of the alpacas to be my guidepacas. One on each side to hold me up, and i'll fashion a cunning little harness that fits over all three of us. Sort of a cross between suspenders and webbing. With embroidery. Lots of royal blues, deep reds, and purples. Maybe some gold color. And bells so people will know we're coming. Like the sight of a "moderately obese" (it said so on one of my doctor's reports. My gastric bypass surgeon will be so proud.) middle-aged wobbly woman tied to two anxious yet nosey alpacas are going to slip their notice. Better safe than sorry, sez I. Just wait 'til I demand to bring them on public transportation as my mobility aids.
I'll tell you one thing - I damn well want my own disability parking sticker out of this. Dar's is expired, so we do some creative display when we use it, which actually isn't all that often: bad weather and a serious lack of parking spaces, or one of us is really under the weather.
I got into a verbal fight with a cranky old lady during Christmas shopping. She looked like the old lady that Hallmark draws for their cranky old lady line of cards. Normally I love her, but not when she's coming after me, by gum. You drew down on the wrong bitchy broad, cranky Canadian crone! I'd parked in one of those absofreainlutely stupid "reserved" spaces for pregnant women with children. Pregnancy is not an illness (except mentally), it's a choice. You choose to have a gazillion kids and drive thos fucking obnoxious large van/suv/tundra vehicles that no else has a chance in hell of seeing around thereby putting ourself in jeopardy because of your fucking hubris and fecundity and I'm supposed to drag my lupus butt from a half-mile away to placate you? Guess again, Hormone Hannah. So it was a very bad lupus day, and I think it was wicked cold, too. Anyway, I pulled into the Stork Spot because all of the handicapped spaces were taken. Dar and Marie were with me, so I had a "legitimate" reason to park in a handicapped space if one were open, too. Just to keep that in mind.
We pull in. Start to get out of the car. This Hummer-size vehicle pulls in right next to us, and out climb to tiny old people. (Compensating much, Estelle?) She looks at me and says, "How pregnanat are you, Miss? [Nice on so many levels.) Me: Excuse me? Her: "That spot is reserved for pregnant women. You don't look pregnant to me." Me: You wanna know something? Her:What? (Half belligerent, half wary.) Me: Not everyone who has an illness looks like they do. I have lupus, and I'm having a really bad day. I'm gonna have trouble just walking to the store, let alone shopping and then schlepping [yes, I said schlepping] everything back out there. All the handicapped places were full, so I'm using this one. Deal with it.
She grumbled some more and then teetered off to follow her husband who's probably gone through a zillion times. She probably makes him cruise the parking lots looking for Stork Spot Scoffers so she can shake her bony finger and bitch at them. Met the wrong damn woman this time. I told Dar she was probably pissed because I took the spot before she could get to it. Bwah!
OK, I took a lorazepam at 12:30 and 1/2 Imovand at 2:15 and I should really be under by now. WTF? This calls for drastic measures. This calls for . . . boooooooooze. Gimme a break - I'm talking a conservative sip out of the bottle. (How couth am I?) Or a booze ball. (It's what we call those Irish Moonshine candy/cookie things that Dar made. Mmmmmm.) All I know is that I have to go to sleep. Satine might have her cria tomorrow, and I wan't to be unzombified for it. Gah, just hit me over the head, OK?
Off to add to the chemical cocktail in my bloodstream. Anyone got a straw? How about one of those tiny umbrellas? Ciao.
Oooh, before I go. My lovely Q is here! She made it. With Pico (who is Pixel to a T if Pixel went through the enlarger at Kinko's) and our Skrippy is here and I'm looking forward to renewing her acquaintance and just hanging out. Southern Belle in the house! Bless her heart :)
Sleep enhancement. Must find sleep enhancement.
I had fall down, though. Twice! Mays fall down go boom. Except that both times I managed to clutch onto something before I actually hit the floor. "You know what this means?" I mourned bitterly to Dar. "It means I can never go into a Crate&Barrel again!" Waaaaaaah! Hahahahaha. I was saying I need to wear a kind of a reverse deep sea fishing harness, except Dar coud keep me hooked up to it and reel me upright when I start to flop around. Hee! We can get her a fishing hat that has the two beer holders on it, except for her it would soda cans. Oooh, oooh! I can train a couple of the alpacas to be my guidepacas. One on each side to hold me up, and i'll fashion a cunning little harness that fits over all three of us. Sort of a cross between suspenders and webbing. With embroidery. Lots of royal blues, deep reds, and purples. Maybe some gold color. And bells so people will know we're coming. Like the sight of a "moderately obese" (it said so on one of my doctor's reports. My gastric bypass surgeon will be so proud.) middle-aged wobbly woman tied to two anxious yet nosey alpacas are going to slip their notice. Better safe than sorry, sez I. Just wait 'til I demand to bring them on public transportation as my mobility aids.
I'll tell you one thing - I damn well want my own disability parking sticker out of this. Dar's is expired, so we do some creative display when we use it, which actually isn't all that often: bad weather and a serious lack of parking spaces, or one of us is really under the weather.
I got into a verbal fight with a cranky old lady during Christmas shopping. She looked like the old lady that Hallmark draws for their cranky old lady line of cards. Normally I love her, but not when she's coming after me, by gum. You drew down on the wrong bitchy broad, cranky Canadian crone! I'd parked in one of those absofreainlutely stupid "reserved" spaces for pregnant women with children. Pregnancy is not an illness (except mentally), it's a choice. You choose to have a gazillion kids and drive thos fucking obnoxious large van/suv/tundra vehicles that no else has a chance in hell of seeing around thereby putting ourself in jeopardy because of your fucking hubris and fecundity and I'm supposed to drag my lupus butt from a half-mile away to placate you? Guess again, Hormone Hannah. So it was a very bad lupus day, and I think it was wicked cold, too. Anyway, I pulled into the Stork Spot because all of the handicapped spaces were taken. Dar and Marie were with me, so I had a "legitimate" reason to park in a handicapped space if one were open, too. Just to keep that in mind.
We pull in. Start to get out of the car. This Hummer-size vehicle pulls in right next to us, and out climb to tiny old people. (Compensating much, Estelle?) She looks at me and says, "How pregnanat are you, Miss? [Nice on so many levels.) Me: Excuse me? Her: "That spot is reserved for pregnant women. You don't look pregnant to me." Me: You wanna know something? Her:What? (Half belligerent, half wary.) Me: Not everyone who has an illness looks like they do. I have lupus, and I'm having a really bad day. I'm gonna have trouble just walking to the store, let alone shopping and then schlepping [yes, I said schlepping] everything back out there. All the handicapped places were full, so I'm using this one. Deal with it.
She grumbled some more and then teetered off to follow her husband who's probably gone through a zillion times. She probably makes him cruise the parking lots looking for Stork Spot Scoffers so she can shake her bony finger and bitch at them. Met the wrong damn woman this time. I told Dar she was probably pissed because I took the spot before she could get to it. Bwah!
OK, I took a lorazepam at 12:30 and 1/2 Imovand at 2:15 and I should really be under by now. WTF? This calls for drastic measures. This calls for . . . boooooooooze. Gimme a break - I'm talking a conservative sip out of the bottle. (How couth am I?) Or a booze ball. (It's what we call those Irish Moonshine candy/cookie things that Dar made. Mmmmmm.) All I know is that I have to go to sleep. Satine might have her cria tomorrow, and I wan't to be unzombified for it. Gah, just hit me over the head, OK?
Off to add to the chemical cocktail in my bloodstream. Anyone got a straw? How about one of those tiny umbrellas? Ciao.
Oooh, before I go. My lovely Q is here! She made it. With Pico (who is Pixel to a T if Pixel went through the enlarger at Kinko's) and our Skrippy is here and I'm looking forward to renewing her acquaintance and just hanging out. Southern Belle in the house! Bless her heart :)
Sleep enhancement. Must find sleep enhancement.
