Oh, this sucks

I was going to write a long cheerful post today, but it turns out my life is horrible and a disaster. My hair is stupid. My skin feels weird. My husband is out to get me. My cat is smelling extra-bad on purpose. My dog is nice but will die soon, or at least eventually. My child thinks I'm a failure. I can't do anything right. The color of the sky is really getting on my fucking nerves. Also you all hate me; yes, you do, don't deny it. In other words (men, look away): I'm getting my period. Yay, womanliness.

It's so humiliating, being such an emotional slave to one's hormonal cycles. I woke up this morning and I was all, wait, why is the world a terrible place all of a sudden? Then I looked at the calendar and realized what was up. This is an improvement on my usual routine, which is to cry and rage and have no idea why until I get my period. I am almost 40, people, you would think I would have this figured out by now. And yet, every month, I'm pissy and weepy and my husband has to point out to me what's going on and then I have to kill him.

On the bright side, I'm heading out to the DMV in a few minutes. Because why ruin a perfectly good day? Since the day's already in the crapper, I figure I might as well wrangle with some underpaid civil servants.

Last week was a big milestone over here in the Finslippy household: Henry's first throw-up. Actually his first non-carsickness-related throw-up. (Oh: and non laughing-related throw-up.) He seems to have inherited my tendency to not get stomach illnesses. I tell people I haven't vomited in 31 years and they think I'm a dirty liar, but I swear to you, it's true. It was in Hershey, Pennsylvania. I was nine years old. I do not think I am forgetting any incidents between then and now. That is the sort of thing I would remember.

So anyway, he was complaining of stomach pain, and we asked him if he felt nauseated, to which he asked, "How would I know what that feels like?" Which is a great question. How the hell do you describe nausea? I remembered from when I was small, anytime I had thrown up my main emotion immediately beforehand was confusion, so I said, "if you have a feeling you can't quite figure out, you might want to get to the bathroom." But when the nausea hit, he was in his bedroom. He aimed for the garbage can, poor thing, but missed entirely. Which I found out when I went into his room and skidded because it was everywhere . Fortunately Scott cleaned his room while I scrubbed my feet in the bathtub and retched and Henry chatted happily with me, proclaiming that he felt fine now and that was weird and let's talk about what just happened in graphic detail!

And you know what? That was probably more fun than the DMV will be. I have a feeling I will pine for it. Oh, to be slipping around in little-boy sick! How simple those times were!