House of Grouch

I hate my hair. 

(I got it cut yesterday.)  I’m reallly not one to be a ‘hair whimp’, as you might call it.  I don’t have all my self-esteem tied up in my hair (thank goodness, for my own sake right now) and am not afraid of going short.  I have only cried once after a haircut, and that was after a very bad whim to ‘walk-in’  to a JC Penny’s salon when I was a freshman in college.  The woman (I can’t even stomach to call her a ‘hair stylist’) did the equivalent to my hair of putting a bowl over my head and clippering.  Maybe she thought I was a guy…or a topiary.  Anyway, I cried.  I’ll admit it.  I’m sure even the most hardened inmate at San Quentin would have been bawling their eyes out at the monstrosity in the mirror.  Plus when you have really short hair, all the hair clips, headbands, and scrunchies in the world can’t fix it.

I’m not crying this time.  But I still hate my hair.  It seems long where it should be short and short where it should be long.  I seem to have this problem of not being able to communicate effectively with hair dressers that I don’t want to look like a dork.  I send them these really strong ESP vibes, but they must miss them or something.

Whatever, this is not a ‘life-ending, shut yourself in your room’ kind of haircut.  More of a ‘I just need to stop looking in the mirror today’ kind of hair-cut.  But that’s not what’s got me grouchy.  It’s this dang-on medication (Norethindrone)I’m taking to break up my stubborn cyst that doesn’t even work!  Grrrrrrrrrrrr!  The medicine gives me ‘global grouchiness’ where I feel irritable and can’t even pin it on anything in particular.  The medication pamphlet said to tell your doctor if you start to experience mood changes.  Why?  Have some people who’ve taken it comitted violent acts?  Gone insane?  I go back on Monday to the RE.   Depending on what the plan is to get me de-cystified, I guess he’ll get to assess my sanity for himself.

I’m not the only grouchy one in my house today.  My dog keeps squirming out of his sock-cover on his broken leg, because I guess he just wants to lick it down to the bone or something.  And he growls and a gripes when I wrestle it back on him.  And my son is grouchy too…which I know is a given with a 2 year-old.  But, I’d had enough after the 4th time he demanded to go potty during lunch, only to demand to go back to eating the moment I sat him on the pot.  So, I brought his peanut butter sandwich into the bathroom, sat the plate on his lap and closed the bathroom door.   That may sound mean, but I promise you it was with great restraint that I chose that particular course of action.

Not only does this medication make me Oscar the Grouch, it also makes me feel extremely anxious.  Like, I’m sitting there all calm just folding laundry, and suddenly it feels like the invisable man just got a death grip on my throat.  Yeah it’s pleasant.  I don’t sleep well either.  I have ‘pregnancy sleep’ without the pregnancy.  No fair.  And I haven’t picked at my pores this much since middle school.   Pretty.

So why am I telling you all this?  Well, it’s certainly not to make me look like some ’sage of infertility’ who knows all the answers and lives with a constant peace and understanding about my ovarian dysfunction.  I guess I could just fake it with you all like I will with most of my real-life contacts I have today.  But instead, I just want to commiserate with any fellow IFers who are feeling especially grumpy themselves.

I’m ready to get this stupid cyst gone.  Kelly, one of my blog-girls, suggested that naming my cyst (as she did hers) might give me some sort of sense of control of the whole thing.  So, I’m going with the name it ‘BetterBeGoneByMarch.’  I’ll call her ‘BetterBe’ for short.  And I’m not playing.  She better be gone by March, or else.  Or else what?  Well, that’s the part that really stinks, I don’t know what else.

I don’t even know what we’re having for dinner tonight, or how to get my dog to keep his stupid sock-thing on, or how to do my hair now that’s been whacked.

Grrrrrrr.  If you need me, I’ll be in my garbage can.