The weight of the world owes me a shoulder rub

How are you, tonight, Internet? Great? Well, too bad, because I think life sucks, and I'm going to complain.

I don't know when life started sucking, because Saturday night's opening night at the opera was fabulous. For one thing, That Stud Muffin I married took much, much longer to get dressed than I did. By about half an hour. That never happens. Usually he's walking around with his coat on, jingling car keys, and I'm in the bathroom wrestling with my contact lenses. So that was good.

And Turandot is one of my favorite operas, and the woman who sang Liu was fabulous. And the party afterwards was actually fun, even though I was as dressed up as I've ever been in my life, which I usually hate, but then, my husband was even more so, right down to his patent leather shoes with grosgrain trim.

But at some point today, I just sort of crashed. I know what you're thinking, Internet, but this was not a hangover--although, naturally, knowing me, it should have been. I know it wasn't a hangover because it didn't happen right away. This morning, as I walked down the part of Chicago rather hilariously named "Cathedral Corridor" (or some such idiotic real-estate-derived marketing title) I actually enjoyed hearing clamor that is Chicago on a Sunday morning: the muffled clanging of church bells, the loud crash of ongoing construction (will it ever end?) and the taxis zooming by. I scurried into choir rehearsal feeling fine, even though I hadn't gotten home until 1:00. The weekend as a whole was lacking in quality sleep, what with Friday evening's Margarita guzzlefest at Jen's--but I didn't overdo it that horribly.

During the service I found myself giggling at the five babies being baptized. The vicar was wearing a microphone, so every time he held a crying baby the crying became REALLY LOUD. Then the baby would cry louder, because it was freaked over HOW LOUD it sounded, and then the other babies would cry, too, because they needed to express their views on the subject. Imagine those novelty Christmas numbers, like a bunch of dogs barking "Jingle Bells," but make it a barber shop quartet of crying babies, and you've got it. So call me insensitive, but I thought it was pretty funny.

But then about half-way through the service, I developed a stiff neck, stiff shoulders, and on top of that, my cranium hurt. My brain limped along through the post-service rehearsal, but it wanted to go home to bed and curl up in the fetal position.

Instead, I had to trudge homewards through the appalling humidity, get everyone ready, and drive home. That Stud Muffin I Married and I had a concert to go to tonight. But tonight's babysitter decided to lecture me about how I should have called her back with directions to the house earlier than this afternoon at 2:00 because she wasn't sure she could get to our house by 7:00.

My reaction? "Who wants you anyway, you big douchebag." Although I put it more politely. To my recollection, vaginal cleansing devices were not actually mentioned.

So I sent my husband off to tonight's concert alone. Neener, neener, bad babysitting lady, I didn't want to go to the concert anyway. Let's face it, after three hours of Puccini on Saturday night, and four hours today rehearsing, I didn't exactly feel that I was experiencing a dearth of classical music.

Also, my daughter has been sick. On Friday the pediatrician said she had pneumonia. (She calls it "Nomia." And I haven't corrected her because I think it's cute. Yes, I really am that dorky.) She's coughing to a terrible extent. It's a bit worrisome ... not terribly, and she's on antibiotics ... but right about now, the weight. Of the world. Is on my shoulders.