Crazy people make for long days

I am so, so ready for a nap (what I'm really ready for is half a bottle of wine, but I'm going the responsible mama route).

Here's my day so far, told in three crazy-person acts:

Crazy Person Number One
The plan for the morning was to apply for Sidamo's passport so we can get his social security number and file taxes. I gathered all of his citizenship documents last night, filled out the application and found the nearest application location, which also happens to be a post office (maybe they all are?). Bonus: I had to mail out some boxes of stuff I just sold on ebay, so two birds, one stone.

I get Sidamo, all his accouterments, the packages, and the passport stuff loaded up in the car (no small feat). As I'm driving and wondering how on earth I'm going to get into the post office with all this stuff (plus a high-energy toddler), I think, "Maybe some nice gentleman will see me struggling and offer to help." Unfortunately when I got to the parking lot, instead of meeting some nice gentleman, I met Crazy Person Number One (CP1 for short).

I park my car, get out, and walk around to the other side to take Sidamo out of his car seat. As I'm going to the passenger side, CP1 gets into his car, just to my right. I'm unbuckling Sidamo and I notice CP1 pulling out. No problem; plenty of room. But then my car door hits me, and I turn around to see CP1 stopping his car, getting out, and slamming his door.

I wasn't quite sure what happened, so I said, "Oops. Did your car mirror bump the door?"

To which he just muttered. I figured he was annoyed with himself for running into my car, so I just took a quick look at the door and said, "Don't worry, no damage done."

He pushed past me and started thoroughly examining his mirror (on his beat-up pick-up, mind you) and still muttering under his breath.

I should have left it alone, but instead I said, "I'm sorry, but did I do something?"

"You left your door hanging open!" he screamed.

"Yes, my door is open. I'm taking my son out of the car."

"Well you need to watch what you're doing!"

"I'm taking my son out of the car. Do you have any suggestions on how to do that with the door closed?"

More screaming on his part about how irresponsible I am; more bewilderment on my part.

He gets in his car and starts to drive off. I say (apparently not quite under my breath), "Moron."

He stops his car. "What did you say?"

"I said you're behaving like a moron."

More screaming about how I had no right to have my door open so wide. Side note: It's a Honda Element, not a Cadillac. The doors don't open very wide at all.

I say, "Sir, my car door was open before you even started your car. I was standing still, you were driving your car and hit my car. How on earth could this possibly be my fault?" He mutters something else and drives off. I'm shaking with anger, and people are staring at me.

Sidamo and I make it into the post office (with no help from kindly gentlemen) and realize the passport line is a mile long. We mail our packages and leave so I can drop the kid off at Grandma's and get to my appointment with CP2.

Crazy Person Number 2
A little background: I've had a pretty good pregnancy so far, and I'm actually really enjoying all the bizarre changes, the growing belly, the constant kicks. My only complaint has been that I've developed a condition called Symphysis Pubis Dysfunction. It's about at pleasant as it sounds. I won't get into all the details, but it basically causes the two bones that join to form the pubic bone to separate, grind against each other, and create lots of pain. I've talked to my doctor about it, tried acupuncture, physical therapy, chiropractic, and so on. I don't want to take any medications during pregnancy (and my doctors know this), so I've just been trying natural remedies. No luck so far, so recently my doctor suggested I see another doctor who she said specializes in pain during pregnancy and uses acupressure, acupuncture, and trigger point therapy to treat it. I asked my chiropractor about this doctor, and he also thought I should go see him. He mentioned that sometimes he'll do lidocaine injections into the pelvic muscles if the pain is really bad. Not my bag, but I figured some of his other remedies might be of use.

So I go to my appointment, which I figure will be an over-the-clothes type of affair (I'm not really comfortable with getting below-the-belt care from male doctors). After a brief introduction, he tells me to disrobe from the waist down. "Underwear too?" I ask. "Yes, underwear too."

Warning: People uncomfortable with gynecological discussions should skip to the next act.

He proceeds to do a full pelvic exam, pushing on different, very sensitive, areas and asking, "Does this hurt?" Umm, yeah. Apparently he was locating trigger points.

So after he's all done, he explains his therapy: He would use a needle to inject lidocaine AND steroids into each of those very sensitive, very internal areas. He'd be happy to do it for me today if I'd like. There haven't been any studies done on it, but he's relatively sure injectable steroids are safe during pregnancy.

No thanks, I'll deal with the pain.

Now here's my question: Why on earth would I refuse so much as a Tylenol but let you inject local anesthetic and STEROIDS into my body, about three inches away from my baby? And also, a needle? There? You've just earned yourself the title of CP2.

Crazy Person Number Three
Sidamo and I get home from all these adventures a little crabbier for the wear. I put him down for his nap and check my email. More background: I write a monthly e-newsletter for a magazine, and as part of the newsletter we have a calendar of events people can contribute to. I ask for people to have their submissions to me by the 15th of every month for the following month's newsletter, formatted very specifically.

There's one woman who never formats it at all (instead sends me a link to a web page from which I'm supposed to cull the information), and never sends it on time. Still, I include her because she's a friend of the magazine. She didn't send anything for the past couple months, but she did have an event she submitted a few months ago that wasn't occurring until this month. As a courtesy, I included it in the December and January newsletters even though she didn't resubmit it, but I forgot to include it in February.

She emailed my editor to point out my oversight and say she never plans to work with the magazine again as a result. A little over the top? Maybe. So I send her a very prompt and very sincere apology. She didn't respond for about a week, and then today (a day already chock full of crazies), I get a reply.

It's not really worth summarizing, so I'll just cut to the chase: She called me a pansy! Literally, she used the word pansy to describe me. The email was four lines long, and that was the punchline. I'm a pansy.

I was really, really tempted to respond with the same thing I wanted to respond to CP1, which is, "Look, I'm pregnant, my pelvis is falling apart, and I'm exhausted from chasing an overly energized toddler all day. And beyond that, I'm a human being. Can you dig real deep and find a drop of compassion in your soul before addressing me?"

But I didn't. I'm blogging about it instead, which I guess is better than swallowing it altogether, right?