Okay, so it isn't quite as catchy as the Beatles' original, but I do what I can.
I started my day, shivering on a construction site, with mud clinging to the hem of my $180 jeans. I don't put my jeans in the dryer, so I hang them by their hems to dry because it usually prevents wrinkling (if the denim is soft and/or has a high lycra content). Unfortunately, this tactic also stretches the pants legs after a few washes. After you've had them hemmed. And that 1-1/4" lug sole on your ohsostylish steel-toe boots doesn't do diddlysquat when the mud is 2" deep. At least.
And Superdeeduper informed me that I should have called him over with the forklift to take the envelope containing the contractor pay-applications, seeing as it weighed more than I did.
It was a beeeeeeeeg envelope.
I stopped at Starbucks en route to the office from the construction site. Okay, it's not really on the way, and it added a good 10 minutes to the trip, but I was freezing, and I can't stand the coffee the guys in the office drink.
I was the only woman in the Starbucks who did not have at least shoulder-length hair, bleached blonde and with a straw-like consistency, and who was not dressed in yoga clothes, or something resembling yoga clothes. Half of them had cell-phones glued to their ears, and were shrieking about shoes, and organizing their closets (one thing we have in common) and how little Madison has ballet at one.
And the Uggs. They were every where.
I caught a couple of odd looks, standing amidst them with my cropped brown hair, voluminous paisley shawl over an aubergine turtleneck, and mud-encrusted boots (and pants hems). I smiled at the women when I caught them looking, and they looked quickly away.
Back at the office, I got to work picking up redlines for an enormous project we're doing just across the Dallas North Tollway from my little apartment.
It's a project I'll be managing next week, while Scooter is on vacation.
I meet the clients, contractor, and construction superintendent tomorrow, so they have the chance to get acquainted with me and comfortable before Scooter flees for the tropics.
Unlike Pacman, Scooter tells me before he up and vamooses, and I'll also be going to the Friday morning site meeting. It's at 8:30. I will be setting twelve alarms to make sure I get there on time. With an Egg McMuffin in my belly.
I workworkworked until 1:00, then scrammed and drove helterskelter up to Plano for a neurologist appointment. I have another one in two weeks (lucky me). I've had 10 days of migraines in 14 days (I think, I need to check the migraine Excel), and my neurologist is slightly freaking out.
But just slightly.
So now I'm tapering off my current migraine medicine (woohoo!) and will start a new one Friday night. She wrote me a prescription for a new "acute migraine" medicine (although must of my migraines are a-ugly. Sorry, I had to), but I can't take it, yet, because:
I'm starting a new migraine medicine to try to stop the cycle of migraine violence. I was exposed to lots of public awareness ads as a child, can't you tell?
The medicine is the same one you receive if you're hospitalized for migraines. The difference is that, in the hospital, they give it to you via IV. I cannot haul an IV bag around on a construction site with me, though, so I'll be taking it through the nose. Every 8 hours. For three days. And then we see if it has worked its magic.
"But what do I do with the migraine I have now?" I queried, squinting to shield my eyes from the light, even though we'd turned off the fluorescent lights to spare my poor optic nerves the strain.
"Dr. Pain gave you pain medicine, right?"
"Well, yes, to take at night."
"Um, I'm not really supposed to do that." Visions of DEA raids danced in my muddled head.
"I'll call him."
Granted, I still can't take my prescription pain medication during the work day because I might have to drive Oldsmobile somewhere, or drive myself somewhere, or be driven out to a construction site where I'm expected to be able to dodge flying wood pieces, if need be.
Oh, and I'm supposed to start acupuncture. Stat.
Back at the office, everyone wanted to know how the appointment had gone. I reported on my progress, or lack thereof, and shrugged.
Radio suggested I have blood work done, a full chemical workup, to make sure everything's okay.
Yeah, okay. But that will have to wait until next year. I'm flat out of vacation days, at this point, and I've still got doctor's appointments (okay, I will be out of vacation days once all the appointments are taken care of).
And now I'm in bed, writing a blog post, my belly full of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, because it's the only thing that sounded good to me, and waiting for 11:00 to roll around so I can take my last dose of migraine spray (but without inhaling; it's not like sinus spray, and if you inhale , you taste it, and it tastes awful).
If you are still reading at this point... my goodness, you must be easily entertained.