Photos of Archimedes, as promised:

Isn’t he just painfully adorable? It looks like I’m strangling him, but I assure you gentleness was used. He just wouldn’t look at the camera unless I forced him.

Okay, eventually he looked. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with his neon octopus toy. He sort of sat on it, like…I win.

He’s been getting a lot better about staking his claim re: bed space & dinner, despite Luna’s repeated efforts to threaten him into submission. He keeps creeping up to her, sniffing various parts, and settling in mere inches away. She tolerates it, mostly.

See? Harmony has been restored. Or…at least it’s only as chaotic as it ever was.

I’m certain I’ve bitched several times on this blog about my height impediment. Nevertheless, I’m a tall person on the inside. What other reasoning could I have for buying thigh high boots to go with my pirate costume?

It should be noted that when I tried the costume on, it fit perfectly. I looked terrifically skanky, just as intended. I’m not even going to have to go begging my Grandma for alterations.

Meanwhile, I had to fight my way into the boots. Patent, as it turns out, is not a body-friendly material. Sure, it was all shiny and seductive at first, but very unbendy later on when I tried stuffing my calf into it’s unforgiving casing. I pushed and pulled and straightened my leg, and nothing worked. Keep in mind, I have skinny chicken legs – I always have. The size 9 I ordered (yes, I’m short AND I have big feet, which proves God has a sense of humor, and also explains my innate clumsiness) should fit me. There’s no reason it shouldn’t.

I went to my Grandma’s house and she helped zip me into the boots. She HAD to. The only way those suckers were going on was if I was exactly vertical and doing my best not to retain any water. Or skin.

I took a few wobbly steps, and I learned something new and significant about thigh high boots in relation to shorter-than-average people. I learned that thigh-high boots don’t stop at my thighs. In fact, if the few pinched steps I managed to take in my Grandma’s kitchen are any indication, chafing would be a definite issue.

I think I’ll be wearing my knee-high boots instead. And guess what? They go all the way up to the middle of my thighs.

I was up at 4AM. Well, not UP, exactly. I was actually curled into a defensive position, staring in the direction of my dresser and wondering WHAT in the name of EVERYTHING HOLY I could have eaten to provoke the rebellion going on in my stomach.

My chest was burning as if someone decided to randomly poke my insides with a branding iron. My stomach was going all topsy-turvy, and I kept rushing to the bathroom, convinced I would throw up any second. Except I didn’t.

I knew I was beyond a simple glass of milk, but I tried one anyway. When that didn’t do anything I swallowed a couple of cap fulls of Pepto Bismol, crossed my fingers, and climbed back into bed. Usually it works. Only it didn’t. So I waited for the grocery store to open (small towns have their disadvantages) and trekked up to get a box of Pepcid AC.

I was so desperate that I took two, even though supposedly – according to the box – one is all that’s needed. I sat up for a while, willing my insides to SETTLE THE FUCK DOWN.

Instead, and I’m not kidding, it got worse.

So I did what any responsible adult would do. I called my Grams to whine and beg for ideas (and sympathy). Her idea, of course, was to go to the doctor – something she knows very well I avoid at almost all costs. I argued for a little while, went back to bed after we talked, and then called the doctor at about 9:30. I was told to come straight down, that they could get me in right away (small towns have their advantages).

There was no magazine-thumbing in the waiting room. I went straight to an exam room, evidently due to some confusion that I might have had the swine flu, which popped up in our community about two weeks ago. I explained my symptoms, was moved to a different exam room, and shortly thereafter was immediately accosted by a nurse who did everything she was supposed to: took my temperature (97.6), my blood pressure (90/60), and checked my pulse.

I could barely sit up at that point. I refused to lie down, because the pain only intensified, but sitting up was no good either. So I sort of half-slouched, with my head on my arm on the sink, and prayed the doctor would come in, take one look, and demand I instantly be placed in a temporary coma. Instead he had me lay down (the sadistic bastard) and pressed on my stomach in various spots, asking about the pain.

I told him the truth – that I was experiencing the worst pain I have ever felt in my ENTIRE life, and if he didn’t fork over some kind of miracle drug PRONTO I would most likely drop dead, and people, dying on butcher paper in my pajamas wearing NO BRA is not my idea of a dignified ending. Oh, RIGHT, like I was going to bother strapping the girls up in a state like that? Hardly.

Anyway. He suggested that I had a “suspicious gall bladder” (?) and that just because I’ve suffered from acid reflux for half my life doesn’t mean it couldn’t be a seperate problem. Lovely. He did prescribe Nexium (pain aside, it was the prettiest pill I’ve ever put in my mouth, all purple and shiny, like CANDY) and something called a “GI Cocktail” which evidently they give to patients who are in danger of having heart attacks.

The GI Cocktail was less fun. It was green and soupy, and most definitely the most VILE thing I’ve ever put in my mouth. The nurse who brought it in instructed me to “down it like a shot”, and even when I did I tasted a little on the back of my tongue, and YEHCK. Gross. Ew. Etc. But, despite tasting like rat feet, it immediately numbed my pain.

Sadly, foods & beverages that I love keep getting moved to the list of things I can’t have.

Doc: “Do you drink a lot of caffeine?”
Me: “Uh…I switched to diet pop. Not having sugar helps.”
Doc: “Do you think you could quit?”
Me: “Uh…do you think I have to?”

Take away all my fun. I almost wish (ALMOST) that my gall bladder is the problem, so that I don’t have to quit caffeine, which I’ve been sucking down on a regular basis since my infancy. What could possibly replace my go-to beverage? Not milk. Too wholesome. Not water, too boring. Maybe juice? Ugh.

While I’m at it, why don’t I just quit eating and drinking altogether?

Okay, I’m done. The GI Cocktail is wearing off. Maybe if I sip water and sit really still I’ll be okay.

Sometimes I think about the things I would do with my kids if I ever became a parent.

We could make snow angels and bake ice cream cone cupcakes. I could give them underdogs on the swings at the park, and read them bedtime stories about magic and bravery. We could play catch, or go to a baseball game. We’d make a huge mess carving pumpkins at Halloween, or fall asleep on the couch at Christmas listening to the Chipmunks holiday record. We could run through sprinklers in the summertime and go sledding in winter and jump into gigantic piles of leaves in the fall. We could throw themed birthday parties and play tag and share sticky lollipop kisses.

Sometimes I think I should do it all anyway.

I love October. It’s my absolute favorite month of the year. For starters, it’s nestled right at the heart of autumn. There are colors everywhere, sweeps of red and gold that pop like jewels in the sun. The sky continues to be a burning blue, a sweet reminder of summer. The scent of wood smoke lingers on air that’s crisp, and just cool enough that I need to put on a light jacket before going outside, which cheers me up considerably as my windbreaker nicely conceals the extra pounds I gained toward the end of last season (STUPID CAKE).

Best of all? HALLOWEEN. It blows my mind to think that there are people in the world who don’t celebrate this lovely, spooky holiday. There’s candy! And costumes! Pumpkins to carve, apples to bob. WHERE, I ask, is the badness? I’ve long suspected it’s NOWHERE to be found. I’ve already ordered my skanky pirate costume – complete with vision-impairing eye patch (just add liquor to ensure disaster) – and am positively giddy at the prospect of stumbling around all night with one hand braced in front of me to fend off impending collisions. Given that I also ordered thigh high boots (hey, I SAID skanky), I’m thinking alcohol consumption will be at a bare minimum. Or maybe I’ll just find a tall, sexy companion who’ll keep me on my feet and away from walls.

If I were ever to get married (which I won’t), I’d want an October wedding, at the very beginning of the month, so that it could still be outside (near sunset) without people freezing their bits off. Naturally it would be in a park or by a lake, with trees everywhere, and paper lanterns so that we could all dance under the stars. In our parkas. Because who am I kidding, October at night is a time for mittens. I could be the first bride (or not?) to shake it in her wedding dress with Uggs on her feet.

Anyway. October is the best month of the year, so expect lots of gushing about it’s perfection and teeth-gnashing over Halloween plans! I’d like to know what everyone is doing as far as costumes, too.