One afternoon last week as I was leaving the gym, I was struck with an excruciatingly bad headache. Not some dull aching, but full-on, God awful, shooting pains of HOLY HELL RIPPING THROUGH MY SKULL. Suspecting I was likely having an aneurysm and would die alone in the Xterra, soaked in sweat and without makeup, where I would bake in the heat until someone discovered me, two days later, reeking of perspiration and decomposition, I sent a quick email to B indicating that I was dying and to look for me at the gym. Then, I reached into my purse, fished around searching for Advil, popped open a bottle and swallowed the last two pills I came across.
A few minutes later, though my head was still hurting like a motherfucker, I realized that I probably wouldn't die before I got home, so I peeled out for the house. (Logically, if you die in your driveway you are much more likely to be discovered quickly, thus smelling up the car less and subtracting from the Dead Haley Depreciation acquired by said car.) I got home, showered, dressed, grabbed the kids at school, and headed to the grocery store.
Now, visiting the grocery store is NOT one of my favorite forays into public. I do not like people. I do not like to touch things other people have touched. Handling a shopping cart makes my practically non-existent gag reflex (yes, B is a lucky man) go into overdrive when I think about all the germy, disgusting people who have touched it before me. No, it DOES NOT HELP that they provide Clorox wipes to clean the handle with before you touch it. People are ALL KINDS OF NASTY. Using a damn wipe is not enough to remove the potential nose-picking, ass wiping, naughty-part touching, vile swill of humanity that befalls those carts. IT IS FUCKING NOT. Trust me.
BUT, I needed groceries, lest my children starve and I be jailed for abuse and neglect (although, frankly, since Casey Anthony was acquitted I feel fairly confident that I could staple the minions together, throw their asses in the linen closet, and let them survive on bread crusts and Kool-Aid for months and still get away with it) so we headed to the store. Once we parked and got inside, I grabbed a shopping cart and headed in with the minis, thinking about eggs and frozen chicken breasts and whether or not I needed yogurt.
We meandered through the store. This, alone, should have been a red flag. I DON'T FUCKING MEANDER. I haul ass at all times. I am fast, and I am efficient. I am a well oiled machine of EVERYTHING (except geometric proofs-- those take me a while) especially grocery shopping, at which I am a GODDAMN GROCERY SHOPPING MASTER. This is what happens when you have kids-- you learn to get in, grocery shop at a breakneck pace, and get the fuck out before you kill someone, or cave and buy tons of shit just to shut up the offspring. However, this time, I MEANDERED. I looked at things. I read various labels. I zoned out in the cereal aisle for about twenty minutes, recalling days of my childhood (pre-diabetes) that were laced with Cocoa Puffs and a Poptart haze, which then led to a vast recall of various Smurfs and Muppet Babies episodes that I had watched with my brother on Saturday mornings. The kids begged for stupid sugary shit every six feet or so, but I sweetly turned them down, making wise Mommy choices. I never became angry. I never got frustrated.
Once we reached the produce aisle, we decided to look for pumpkins so that we could carve them on Halloween. For over half an hour, I hoisted pumpkins out of a bin that was as tall as I was, lining them up and helping the kids decide which pumpkins were the best. When they changed their minds halfway to the checkout line, I laughed and took them back to the bin, where we compared pumpkins for another ten minutes or so. We were giggly and sweet, and I thought repeatedly, "I LOVE being a Mom! This is so awesome."
And then I realized-- HOLY FUCK. I'M HIGH.
Yep. You heard me. As my mother would say, "High as a kite," (or, in Haley speak "FUCKING HIGH AS A GODDAMN KITE).
Remember those "Advil" I popped at the gym? Yeah. Not Advil. SO not Advil. Hydrocodone. Leftover Dad-strength, cancer pain fighting Hydrocodone that I had swiped after he passed away and stashed into my purse for cramps or migraines or really shitty parenting days (don't push me-- this is a totally valid reason to take drugs). And I didn't take the ONE that was prescribed for Dad. I took TWO. No wonder I felt so warm and happy and fuzzy around the edges. And the sad thing? IT WAS FABULOUS. Probably my best Mommy Day ever (at least, until I realized that those were my last two Hydrocodone and that, unless I purposefully snapped a bone on my way out of the store, my Happy Haze was permanently over).
Ironically, this week is Red Ribbon Week at the kids' school. They keep telling me how DRUGS ARE BAD. What the fuck ever. I'm thinking of jumping off the roof just to score some more. Or at the very least, make a run to Portsmouth where I'm pretty sure I could score just about anything on just about any corner. For now I'll keep that to myself, but you can be damn sure that when my KIDS have kids, I'll be encouraging them to build their own damn meth lab.
Whatever it takes to get by.