First up...a diamond painting finish. This was the kit that prompted me to start diamond painting in the first place, I think. I seem to remember that it popped into my Instagrams and I thought "I should try that".
I'm so glad I did.
I honestly don't know what came over me yesterday, but after my second cup of damn good, I decided to try to push myself to "just do one thing" and change the sheets on the bed.
Before I knew what hit me, I had not only done that, I had cleaned the entire apartment to within an inch of its life and did about seven loads of laundry to boot.
(Yowsa.)
I managed to get a long hot shower completed before the water heater decided to fritz out (emergency maintenance technician Robert reassured me that it was a good thing I called him), and I spent the rest of the night watching YouTube videos about the Philadelphia Mob with JB while Robert putzed and futzed about in the utility closet, declared that it was unfixable, and turned off the gas and water "just to make sure nothing blew up".
(Well, that's reassuring.)
(They'll be here Monday to fix it.)
(Good thing I got that shower!)
So by the time I put my head on the pillow last night I said a teary thank you to BG* for helping me get so much accomplished, and I fell into what I hoped would be a good long sleep.
Nope.
In addition to everything else, I have started waking up two or three times a night unable to breathe, which then causes me to have awful panic attacks that "roll" throughout the day. I just can't breathe, Dearies, and if you know anything about me, you know that not being able to breathe is second only to being buried alive on my list of things that are in my NO THANK YOU column.
Then, just to make sure I'm paying attention, my abdomen is distended and so sore across the middle that I feel like I've swallowed a bag of wet cement studded with push pins, my hair is falling out, my skin is so dry it's cracked and bleeding, I fall asleep with a needle in my hand, I've screamed so much at Rich that I caught him looking for an Exorcist yesterday, and my face turns bright red every night at 8pm and feels like it's on fire. (There are about ten more unpleasant things going on, but I'm going to spare you, since I really start to sound crazy when I talk about it.)
(Besides...boundaries.)
(She says while grinning maniacally.)
I've diagnosed myself with everything from colon cancer to a pituitary tumor, and I'm pretty sure that if I tried hard enough I could pass whatever test you need to pass to have MD after your name, thanks to my attendance at the Google Medical School. Meanwhile, I have seven doctors going in seven different directions, I have so many new and different drugs to try that I'm seriously waiting for the DEA to execute a warrant, and my Facebook algorithm has changed from stitching and book ads to nothing but miracle cures and Weight Watchers Ozempic subscription information.
The best part of all of this is that I stand in front of Stewey's little box of ashes every night with my hand on BellyBean and I say "Boys, Mommie is decidedly unwell, so I need you both to do the things that you do to watch over me and help me make it through the night so that I can get better, lose 150 pounds, get my eyebrows done, and go back to doing the things I love while simultaneously figuring out a way to be worthy of all of the blessings of my life, pay them forward, and make a big fat difference in some small way in this wonderful world we live in."
And then I crawl into bed and wait for the panic attacks to begin.
So that's what's going on over here in Crazyass Spinsterville. In between telling myself not to die and making a pot of chili, I'm going to try to get back to stitching Alphabets today.
What's new with you?
