I'm Sorry if I Lost You

I was getting sick of my layout. I wanted to give myself a nice, fresh bloggy start, maybe with a pretty background that didn't look so much like all the standard ones. And, while the couple I picked are very cool, they automatically replace a lot of your widgets {and gidgets and gadgets and whosits and whatsits} with their own. I have a QTF - Quick Trigger Finger - and I forgot to copy things down before it replaced some of my stuff, like pics and blog rolls and things of that nature. So those of you whose blogs I was following, I'm sorry if I lost you . . . I am trying to get everyone back on, little by little. It is hard to keep up with everything on the intrawebnet, so it will take me some time.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch . . .

I have mountains of laundry to fold. MOUNTAINS. And almost none of it fits. Thus, every morning goes something like: wake up (too late, because I couldn't sleep the night before and I just fell into deep sleep by the time the alarm went off ), rustle through whatever's still clean, make sure it buttons, see if I can wear it unbuttoned if it doesn't button, find something that covers all the ensuing fat rolls, and hope I have time for makeup and a dog-walk. (Neither of which happened today, by the way.) (By the way, please note that you should feel sorry for me, not the dog - Kona is one spoiled m'f'er.) This morning shouldn't have been too bad, seeing as how I only had 3 full glasses of wine last night and I stopped drinking (and eating) several hours before bed. But I've woken up some mornings, after drinking an entire bottle immediately before sleeping, and felt infinitely better than I did today. I'm not sure whether to blame it on the food coma or the crying jag. Either way, when I look in the mirror, my eyes are so swollen shut that I look like I'm a)from a different planet or b)have been doing drugs all week. (A is significantly more likely to be true than b, in case you were wondering, but even if it was true, my parents are obviously doing an excellent job of concealing my otherworldly origin, so even I do not know the planet from which I hail.) And, again, nothing fits. So what goes perfectly with exhaustion, physical illness, emotional trauma and pain? Ahhh, yes. Humiliation.

Let's weigh in, shall we?

I step on the scale (I will admit that I dropped a few f-bombs on it before I dropped myself on it), stood there cursing under my breath for a few minutes, and, momentarily, the digital readout responded: "Exactly the same weight as every other day this week." (It didn't say those words, of course, it said the NUMBERS. And not outloud. It doesn't actually talk. I just read what it shows me. YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN!!!) I breathed a sigh of relief - this weight means being pregnant shot me up 7 pounds (but I had lost 5, so it's techncially only 2) -yet it still means my eating habits this week are not quite as bad as I remember. (And yes, in case you're wondering, I am one of those people who almost instantly sees the result of a bad or good week of eating/working out reflected on the scale by as much as 5 pounds) I toasted a whole wheat bagel with some light cream cheese and a few slices of lox, and headed to work.

I'm dying for rest. A hot beach and a cold drink, even though I can't swim. My eyes burn. My head aches. I'm supposed to be trying my contacts again today, but I guarantee they're not going to last, although I already feel so shiteous that maybe I can just blame it on them. One of my girlfriends asked me to go out with her tonight, but I don't know what's better for me - staying home, resting, and possibly not folding the laundry again because I'd rather read and sleep, but in the process being alone and feeling like a giant sad wussy for the 4th night in a row, -or- going out for a while and feeling like complete ass on Saturday morning. Besides, my motto is there's nothing you can't get through with a lot of sarcasm and a little booze. Important to note here that the operative term is a little booze. I've learned the hard way that a lot of booze just exacerbates your problems, particularly when you're puking and an emotional wreck the next day. Not a pretty combination.

Saturday is a big day - I'm going to a birthday party for my girlfriend's 2-year-old. It's going to be interesting to see how I handle it. I don't like many kids, but she is a trip. I call her mini-me - I swear that, every time I talk to her mom, who's one of my closest friends, this little girl is talking about, doing or eating the same thing I am. When I'm around, she follows me all over and expects me to get her out of trouble (which she gets into a lot.) That doesn't happen - I'm a tough customer, no matter how cute and 2 you are. Saturday afternoon, I get to meet one of my favorite tri-bloggers and soon-to-be spin instructor for dinner. After that, all I want to do is lay around with coffee and a book. Hell, that's all I want to do all weekend. Or, on the beach with a daquiri, as aforementioned.

Now, I know what you're thinking. A 25-year-old woman (again, fake age) with the weekend all to herself and plenty of friends should be going out doing stuff, right? In any case, I should be taking it easy on myself. The problem is, I don't know what taking it easy on myself constitutes. Does it mean trying to jam my time with all kinds of activities so that my mind doesn't wander, or does it mean trying to spend lots of quiet time by myself, resting and relaxing?

I'll figure it out. In the mean time, can someone bring me a pillow and a blanket? There is absolutely no concentration going on over here. My face hurts. (Yes, I know. It is also hurting me to look at it.)