Just a quick word to those of you who will know what the hell I’m talking about when I say: K-Hizzle des choses petits must have posted something new, because my blog stats jumped significantly even though I haven’t written anything new in a few days.  My small readership wants to know, perhaps, what I think of The Littles Summit happening in Big Sky Country.  I have been feeling horribly under the weather this past week, no doubt catching what Baby V is bringing home from day care, so the amount of research it would take to find out exactly for what Hamps was dragging her kids across the states seemed especially daunting to me.  The photos are gorgeous, as usual.  I had to wonder if the close up of the other woman’s daughter with what looks like the herp on her upper lip was lily-white in the motive department.  I don’t know how to pronounce the other woman’s name from looking at the spelling, but let’s just say she and K-Hizzle play fast and loose with the “roolz” of English pronunciation when it comes to their monikers.  And while all children are adorable in their own ways, it isn’t always a great idea to put your kids next to stunningly beautiful children for photographs unless you are sure to get close-ups of those pretty other children’s erupting skin lesions for good measure.  Also, don’t forget to put a bright shiny coat of gloss on your hang-overs and make them sound like poetry.  There is MAGIC in the bottom of the gin bottle (throws confetti).

Okay, okay, that was nasty.  I’m sure they weren’t REALLY hung over.  And if they were, we’ve all been there.

I skimmed comments, because I need to know if Poppa is moving forward with any of those adoptions, or if 60 is STILL sexy, and ascertained that somebody said some snotty things about this PEASANT WOMAN and her unsaintly lack of household staff to clean, and that our QUEEN deigned to expose the two messiahs to her unfabulousness.  Pish posh on that, I say.  I have no dog in this fight.  But poor Diggety Dug Gardening Blog Lady.  I know from personal experience how nasty those Annie Wilkesish followers of the little things can be!

But I had to clap my hands together with a cackle of wicked glee, because where there is a bitchy reader comment, there is the poppa of K-Hizzle with a bitchslap and a snap and a no-she-didn’t!  Sometimes there are Bible quotes, but always there are platitudes and armchair psychology diagnoses.  These “haters,” according to him, want relationships with him and his ilk, and since his sweet daughter and her lovely friends won’t be friends with US, the haters, we have to piss all over their beautiful world in steaming hot streams of rejection and envy.  But like Wonder Woman’s bracelet cuffs, they use their pure love and joy and specialness to deflect the hateful words of critics, and we “haters” are left alone (like we were before because we have no friends, and no lives) covered in our own hot piss.  Remember, they are certainly attractive people, but what they really radiate is INNER BEAUTY.  Velveteen Rabbit beauty.  The kind that bitter people like me who don’t KNOW GOD can’t possibly understand.  We want relationships with them?  The “haters” do?  Not the hundreds of women who say “I want you to visit me!  I’m so jealous!” or “I want to steal Nella” or “I printed a picture of your kids, put it in a frame and am telling people they’re mine” or “ADOPT ME, POPPA!  YOU MAKE 60 SO SEXY!” Okay, sure.  Let’s go with that.  No criticism could be legitimate.  We “haters” must be lonely, crazy and dull.  And we’re making our own children bitter. We’re Jennifer and she’s Angelina. We’re Debbie, and she’s Liz.

Now back to me.  Not unlike two stay-at-home mommy bloggers, I woke up at 6 a.m., as usual, this morning (sans hang-over) looked at the sleeping puddle of cute snuggled up beside me, rolled over to give her a kiss and … okay, INTENDED to roll over and deliver this kiss, but I couldn’t move.  The persistent bursitis in my hip had joined forces with the muscle spasms in my back and mutiny was declared.

Yesterday was a half day at school so that we teachers could be ready for Back to School Night (and still only work the usual number of contractual hours that day), so I took the day off with every intention of being rested up and ready to meet parents in the evening.  I hate BTSN as much as any teacher (as my buddy Trixiebell puts it, it’s like spending 3 hours being a Miss America contestant.  We smile, we wave, we talk about the teacher version of world peace: high test scores), but I’ve never missed one in all of my 10 years of teaching.

Okay, ONE.

But it was ON my birthday and that morning I sprained my ankle while running with my (then) newly adopted dog (who I am convinced tripped me on purpose, but I could never prove it, so my lawyer said I had no case).  I even showed up for work that day and the principal sent me home.

I’m dedicated, is what I’m saying.  Even though BTSN feels like a giant job interview-where I stand in front of a group of people who are getting closer and closer to me in age as the years pass, and assure them that I am capable of teaching their children-I show up.  So I felt a little guilty calling in sick Tuesday night.

To my surprise, I actually called in sick today as well, only I DID take Baby V to school, so now I’m home sick and alone.  Alone.  I haven’t been alone like this since August of 2008 when I found out that I had another human being inside me.

Let’s just say I’m happy that my back is in agony and my throat is killing me and that my period is telling me, “Go get an egg and cheese biscuit from McDonald’s.”  That’s right, because otherwise I’d have no excuse to not be cleaning the house for my mother-in-law’s visit later today.

I just found out yesterday that a friend of mine is pregnant with her second child.  Her first is a few weeks older than Baby V.  A second friend with a baby my baby’s age gave birth to number 2 yesterday.  I’m feeling sad about the possibility of having only one.  AGAIN.  Jeebus, Mrs. Odie, pick a side and stay on it, will you?  I KNOW!  Last night I lay in bed nursing Baby V to sleep while she kept popping off my nipple to breathe through her mouth and sing a few bars of “Itsy Bitsy Spider,” and I was thinking, “Odie takes terrible care of himself and won’t see a doctor EVER.  It isn’t fair to me if he dies in his fifties and only leaves me with one child to keep me company.”  Don’t worry, I actually DO have the good sense not to say that to him.  His mother will handle it for me.

So, between (it should be “among” but that sounds wrong) my hip, my back, my period, and the imminent arrival of Momma Odie, I just couldn’t rally today.  So it’s just me, the DVR, and a twelve pack of Diet Dr. Pepper.