Incompletus

Poooor Deuce, already suffering from the Neglected-Second-Child Syndrome.


Her stocking was hung by the chimney with care. A whole lot of care being that the toe isn't bound off, the ends are weaved in, the seam isn't seamed, the body isn't bedazzled, and the lining isn't even a pipe dream. Santa must have been afraid because he skipped right over it.

Here's hoping your holidays were a little more successful than ours!

I May Have Crossed The Line

In year's past I have given our Christmas trees famous monikers. We've had Gisele Bundchen (tall and skinny), Slim Shady (tallish and thinnish), and Danny DeVito (short and fat), to name a few. So, with that in mind,


Heather "Crazy" Mills McCartney (tall, thin, and missing a leg) wishes you all a merry Merry.

Close Call

It seems that yesterday we were visited by gnomes. Or trolls. Or some other foul creature that took away this:


And left us with this:


Fortunately, the switch was short-lived and we have our sweet-tempered baby back. Which is good because we would have been screwed, I already cut the tags off so I can't return her!

Hustle, Me Must

Twas a few weeks before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse (especially not a mouse). The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, but for one, which needed to be knitted.



So maybe I should get to knitting while my creatures aren't stirring, eh?

Necrosis

Well, uh, we seem to have resolved our mouse problem. As the mouse crawled into Noah's Ark and died.

The Ark which will my husband will be throwing away tonight.

No Shit.

That there is the mouse, dead, next to the Ark.

I have to say, as an atheist, I am amused that the mouse died in Noah's Ark. As a mom, I am sad since it was a fun toy and now we have to throw it away. And, as a softie, I am a wee bit depressed at the thought of the mouse crawling in the ark with the mini animals thinking he had found kindred souls, only to end up D.E.A.D. dead. I want to yell at him and say, "See, you shouldn't have come to our house! Duh!"

There is a lot more to the story, such as my husband suggesting we throw away the ark (see, us = atheists) mere hours before the mouse was discovered and me saying no because I liked it; me, the wussiest of wusses, then finding the fucking thing dead in the ark, screaming, throwing the ark across the room thus sending the mouse carcass airborne; LB, seeing me freak the hell out, and mimicking me; and, me, calling my husband on his way to work, telling him I could deal with eleven mistresses better than I could with a dead mouse. I'm gonna skip the details though because really, the details can't top the fact that the mouse died in my kid's Noah's Ark toy.

Duuuuuddddeeee

I know I don't have to post today being that NaBloPoMo is done and over. That is, of course, why I actually have something funny to post about. You see today, the kids were napping and I was in need of a little sweet, a little something something, and the next thing you know, I had accidentally gotten high. I KNOW. It was crazy. We had a can of ReddiWip. I decided I wanted some of that whipped goodness. I also decided to indulge in my white trashness (and avoid extra dishes - lame), and so I shot that whipped goodness directly into my mouth. And somehow I inadvertently think I did a whip it because I had a mouth full of sweet and a head full of, um, light headedness. Yes, while my kids were napping I was getting high (albeit unintentionally). Am I a model of awesome parenting or what?

NaBloPoMo, 30

Whew! I made it. Thirty posts in thirty days. Well, thirty-one posts actually. I'm an over-achiever. Some of my posts have been less than stellar, more than some. The majority. Luckily NaBloPoMo is one of the few things in which it is all about quantity and now quality. But still, I did it. Go me. And now, for my final NaBloPoMo post, I shall continue with the shoddy quality.

Tonight we gave TD her first full on bath (as opposed to a sponge bath). She handled it pretty well with only minimal fussing. Once she was clean, we sniffed the hell out of her since the new baby smell was back. In addition to smelling her, we also rubbed her head because her hair is soft. How soft? "Damn! Feel her head. It's like cotton. Or dandelion fuzz." "I KNOW. It's just so soft. I want to cut it off and make underwear out of it." "?"

NaBloPoMo, 29

I wasn't kidding about my slow knitting, brain farting, mojo.


Two nights worth of work. Here's hoping I can do a little better tonight!

NaBoPoMo, 28

Seriously? I have re-knit the name band on TD's stocking five. Five. FIVE. 5. times. Holy crap. I'm not sure if it is a brain fart, or what, but it has taken me two nights to knit a six letter name band. I am amazed at my own idiocy.

NaBloPoMo, 27

I've been (finally) knitting TD's stocking and now it's late and I have no time to blog! Instead I am going to share pictures of my poor, put out, puppy dog, who was bedazzled by LB.

NaBloPoMo, 26

Now that LB is gaining some brain cells, I decided that we should start teaching her about Thanksgiving and how it is a day where you think about all the things for which you are thankful. Like mommies that are at your beck and call and daddies who read the horrible fish book over and over and doggies that play with you despite the repeated thunks they receive from the balls that you throw at them. Her brain cells, however, are not quite THAT high functioning. So I decided to dumb down my lesson. To wit:


Elmo Cake! When you are gaga over Elmo, you should be thankful at having a special Elmo cake made just for you for Thanksgiving. Right? I mean NOTHING says Thanksgiving like Elmo cake. Ha! I'm not sure if it was the neon red frosting, or the nightmarish thought of eating her fun furry friend, but whatever it was, she was not interested in eating Elmo. Not in the least. Which is fine, more cake for me! That Elmo is one tasty monster!

NaBloPoMo, 25

Today was the kind of day where I needed to get out of the house. I'm still trying to keep TD away from humans, or rather humans with germs, which means that she is incompatible with going out. Which is why my trip out of the house ended up at the drive-thru Starbucks. 20.5 miles away. Yes, I drove 41 miles for a latte. It was a good latte. But still ... forty-one miles. Wow.

In addition to being crazy-driving-for-a-latte lady, I'm also crazy-buying-a-turkey-and-the-rest-of-the-brouhaha-that-goes-with-a-Thanksgiving-meal lady. Yes, we are doing a real dinner despite the fact that we are dirty, dirty mouse ridden people, who have a new baby, a small kitchen, and no time. I just typo'd moose with mouse, which would be less dirty and more amusing. Though harder to avoid. In any event, I decided to hoop it up, step outside of the box, and am making an Elmo cake for one of our desert items. Basically LB will have something to be thankful for on Thanksgiving. It is baking as we speak. We'll see how it turns out.

NaBloPoMo, 24

Today would have been my father's eightieth birthday. Given that I'm only ("only" snort, snort) thirty-four, that seems downright archaic, and surreal, to me. Anywho.

We've been having a bit of a mouse problem here at Casa da SouthPark. People that know me in real life, know that I don't say that lightly. Considering I am somewhat of a clean freak and I hate nature, mice make me want to scream and admitting we have a problem ... well, yuck. We're dirt bags. Who knew? It started the night TD was born and our dear sweet friend was watching LB. She put LB to bed and plunked down on the couch to veg with some bad t.v. Only once she plunked, Mickey appeared. Thanks for watching our kid. We're dirty. Anyway, a few days later, Boo found Mickey, bludgeoned him to death, and considered it a done deal. Unfortunately Mickey had friends, and now they want to torment us, or rather me. In the middle of the night. When I am half-asleep, defenseless and feeding TD. We've bought traps, but the fuckers laugh at our traps. So I'm thinking we need to rent a cat. I don't want to own a cat. I am a one cat human, and since Cat died, I'm done. But renting a cat, that seems like a good idea. And, if that doesn't work, well, I guess we'll move.

NaBloPoMo, 23

I'm typing this with a munchkin asleep on my chest. Normally I'd put her down and let her nap in her crib or bassinet, but today I need to feel her warm little body mushed up against me. We had our two week check up and though she is fine, it turns out that she broke her collar bone during delivery. Though "common" with babies who get stuck, it also happens with babies who deliver rapidly. No one caught it when she was first born, and so it healed, or is healing, in a way that TD now has a bump on her collar bone where the bones knit together a smidge unevenly. When the pediatrician said this, I valiantly managed to keep my shit together. In fact, I very calmly said, "Wow, I'm freaking out right now." I love my pediatrician and she greeted this statement with, "Don't freak out. She is great." The pediatrician went through all sorts of range of motion things and strength and stretching things and determined that TD does everything evenly. She then got her partner, another pediatrician (obviously) to check TD out and he did a bunch of exam things and also thought she did everything evenly. Which means that she is not handicapped. But still, my baby broke her collar bone. And she has an umbilical hernia. It was not what you would call a gold star visit.

Also not gold star worthy, semi-homemade Sandra Lee's Thanksgiving meal, or rather the side dishes. They look so repugnant that I am amazed that the Food Network let her make them. And yes, I realize that is totally bitchy and catty, and I realize that it might be me being bitchy and catty because I am upset about poor little Deuce. Transference anyone?

NaBloPoMo, 22

Christ on a cracker I'm cutting it close, it is almost tomorrow and I'm just now blogging! But blogging I am. If I wasn't on the verge of going to bed, I might make a better effort, but my pillow is calling.

NaBloPoMo, 21

In a few hours I am going to oogle an under-aged boy. Maybe I shouldn't announce that on the internet ... but then again, impure thoughts, in and of themselves, aren't criminal, right? Anyway, what I am saying is that I'm going to see New Moon. Me, and several of my nearing middle-aged friends.

NaBloPoMo, 20

Seriously dudes, I am the tiredest person ever. Due to a series of unfortunate encounters with other people's bodily fluids, I found myself naked and in need of clothes at three different times between the hours of 1:00 a.m. and 6:00 a.m. As if that wasn't pathetic enough, these encounters culminated with puke in my hair and the need for a shower when it was still dark out. You know you are tired when a shower does not wake you up in the least. Surprisingly, this morning was atypical and not a regular occurrence in my life. Which could be why I am wrecked. I had visions of starting on TD's Christmas stocking during nap time today. But instead I am eeking out a blog post and then falling asleep face first on the floor. The couch is just too far. And the bed? Separated by two sets of stairs.


I am partially responsible for my own tiredness as I stayed up later than I should have making a Caramel Brulee Cheesecake. It is pretty damn good so I am not sure, even knowing what lie ahead, that I would have skipped the baking and gone straight to bed. I do know I'm not skipping the eating before I take a nap!

NaBloPoMo, 19

I'm not sure if it is unfortunate or fortunate, but I did managed to leave the house last night, but I did not manage to do anything asinine enough to be blogable. Considering that I forget my name half the time, the fact that I left the house and returned to it a few hours later, all in one piece, seems like a win-win.

Speaking of win-win, can we talk turkey? For the record, turkey has nothing to do with win-win. That was my attempt at a seamless transition. And though it might have worked, it make no sense. Moving on. At my husband's urging, I (probably) will not be cooking a turkey this year. Instead, I plan to buy a pre-made turkey. Anyone ever purchased a pre-made turkey and if so, thoughts? I am leaning toward the Honey Baked Ham Company as it seems to be reasonably priced (unlike Williams-Sonoma ... deep-fried turkey teasing bastards!) and I have heard of it which implies that the food does not suck. Well, not really, I have heard of many places with sucktastic food. But I don't recall hearing bad things, so that's good. Sort of.


Here is a random picture of TD. She is not a turkey, and though she has the skinniest little chicken legs, she will not be gnawed on (by anyone other than me) for Thanksgiving.

Anywho, the upside of not cooking a turkey is that I will have more free time on Thanksgiving. Normally that might mean baby time, but BiL5 will be here, as will a niece, so I am thinking knitting time ... we shall see.

NaBloPoMo, 18

18 Things I Wish I Did Today But Didn't
Another list, because it is the eighteenth day of NaBloPoMo and I still have nothing interesting and I could type this on my phone while I was pumping.

1. Hang curtains, any curtains, even toilet paper curtains, in master bedroom.
2. Clean the bathroom floors.
3. Make a Goodwill donation run.
4. Starbucks ... going through Pumpkin Spice Latte withdrawal is ugly.
5. Organize TD's room (I did sort of start on this but then there was hunger, poop, and a need for attention so I'm not even halfway done and it stays on the list).
6. Cure LB's cold - granted this is an impossible thing to do, but still.
7. Make dinner that consists of real food, not prepackaged microwave foods or fruit.
8. Make extra dinners and freeze them, 'cause if I'm gonna cook, I might as well cook.
9. Go for a walk - I did ponder this but decided it was too chilly for TD. Also, I'm not sure where my bra is.
10. Do my laundry. This might have unearthed a bra.
11. Paint my toenails. They look sketchy.
12. Paint my fingernails. They look plain.
13. Nap. Actually this can be replaced with "Sort out misc. papers in office" as I did doze off for thirty minutes.
14. Swap out LB's toys for the ones in the basement.
15. Shave my legs. I did get a quicky quick shower so I shouldn't complain.
16. Wax my eyebrows, or rather eyebrow. I need to make the one furry one into two.
17. Clean the hardwood floors. I'm thinking we need a steam mop. Or, rather this is my excuse for not having done them.
18. Fix LB's blackout shade. I broke it and kind of rigged it which means it can't open.

In other news, I am hoping to leave the house tonight for a short stint of knitting at Starbucks (hello lover, I mean latte). Maybe something will happen which will be blogworthy and I can get past the lists ...

NaBloPoMo, 17

On this seventeenth day of NaBloPoMo, I shall list seventeen things that I enjoy eating or drinking from outside establishments (in other words, the well has run dry of blogging ideas) (also, the word establishment makes me think of a titty bar, and, for the record, those are NOT the types of places where I will consume either food or beverage. I am using establishment to refer to places not my home. Because you might think my home is a titty bar? I make no sense. Moving on).

1. Outback Steakhouse's Outback Special
2. Starbucks' pumpkin spice latte
3. Mom & Dad's stuffed eggplant
4. Dairy Queen's Brownie Batter Blizzard
5. Panera's breast cancer bagel
6. McDonald's french fries
7. Cheesecake Factory's ranch salad dressing
8. Bertucci's lestina pizza
9. Taco Bell's taco salad
10. Dunkin Donut's iced coconut coffee
11. Outback's coconut shrimp
12. Publix' subs
13. Melting Pot's fried broccoli
14. Puerto Vallarta's fajita salad
15. Harvest Cafe's coconut muffin
16. Silver Slipper's kumbak dressing
17. Red Robin's teriyaki chicken burger

NaBloPoMo, 16

Despite the fact that my daughter was a full-term, full-sized baby, she received handknits from the nursery.


When it was time to leave I tried to give them back but was told we got to keep them. Which I thought this was quite neat as I thought handknits donated to hospital maternity wards were for NICU babies only.

NaBloPoMo, 15

It's amazing what one day can do to improve your disposition. In other words, I have emerged from my hormonal pity-party and am now among the land of the living, or at least the land of those who wash dishes. Because nothing says normalcy like washing dishes. Oddly enough, last night was the least amount of sleep I have gotten in the past week as my boobs mysteriously dried up and TD was pissed and nursed for four hours straight. Which in addition to being sleep deprived, means my boobs are sore (and that is an understatement so understated that I can't think of anything dramatic enough to illustrate my point other than ow. Ow. OW.). So all things considered, I should be even more pathetic than I was yesterday. But I'm not. Go figure. Instead I am chipper and ready to share a funny anecdote. If only I had one. Which I don't. But I do have something. A weird food. Perhaps one of the weirder foods I have ever stumbled upon. To wit:


Yes, that's right, organic pancake batter (not weird). In a can (weird). We saw it and knew we had to get it because really, how could you pass it up. Should you decide you can't live a complete life without trying pancake batter from a can, then I direct you to the cans of refrigerated whip cream. Nestled amongst the whip cream you'll find this little gem, just waiting to be devoured. And, for what it's worth, I did make one pancake and it was okay. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but what I got wasn't too terribly special.

NaBloPoMo, 14

This is another one of those posts where I am gonna whine and indulge in hormonal self-pity balderdash, so if you are not currently sitting in a dark room, chain smoking Marlboro Reds and listening to The Cure, you probably are going to be annoyed and have the urge to smack me and utter "Snap out of it!" Which is fine. You can do that tomorrow. But for now, I'm suggesting you take your perky happy self elsewhere.

I've heard over and over that bringing a new baby into the the mix will be "trying" or "hard" but that it gets easier. And I know that I can be a wuss. So I don't know if I am being a wuss, or if people aren't telling the truth, or I am just totally fucking lucky. But bringing a new baby home is like jumping into a volcano. Of acid. With open wounds. Naked. While being bombarded with country music. In other words, from this little portion of the universe, parenting two sucks right now. Surprisingly, it isn't TD that I am struggling with, oh no, she is easy peasy and the antithesis of LB at her age. In fact, she is napping. On her own. And during this nap I have showered, shaved (and what does it say that it has been so long since I shaved that my razor was RUSTY when I went to use it - which, incidentally I did, because my tetanus is up-to-date and I am a risk taker), cleaned out my maternity clothes, and started this blog post. Good baby, no?

It, life, the here and now, it sucks because LB thinks I am the anti-Christ and would rather hit me, throw food at me, kick me, or tell me to go fuck myself (in toddler speak, she lacks my refined vocabulary). I have no concern that I am ruining her life. Instead, I feel as if I am ruining our relationship. And just typing that makes me cry and also take a step back and say, Really Drama Queen? And yes, Inner Monologue, really, so shut it. In the last few weeks of my pregnancy LB was testing me. Asserting her independence and will of iron. So it is no surprise that she is continuing to do that now. But it still hurts. It hurts when she won't hug me or kiss or cuddle with me. It hurts when sees me coming and runs the other way. It hurts that she so totally tunes me out that my voice is silent to her. It hurts when I try to feed her and she would rather shake her head violently, throwing everything to the floor and kicking so hard she sends her highchair across the room. It hurts that starving is more appealing that being with me. It hurts when I grab her, go for a hug or cuddle and hold on as hard as I can, despite the fact that it feels like my retarded boobs are being sheered with glass, and she writhes away from me with all of her strength. It hurts when the one second of the day that she wants to relent and give in and acknowledge me is when I am nursing her sister and have to distance us because LB has a cold and I don't want TD to catch it. And it makes me angry. With her and with myself. It makes me seethe because I am trying. I am. I am trying everything I (and the internet, and the random people I've asked for insight) can think of. And yet. And yet I find myself yelling at her, pleading with her, walking away from her with the tears streaming down my face because I am so frustrated and I know I am making the situation worse. I want to cuddle with her and I want to giggle with her and I want her to know that I absolutely love and adore her with every fiber of my being but I don't know how to bridge the chasm that seems to be in the way. I have to say, that right now, right now parenting two sucks. It is heart breaking and draining and gives you puffy eyes.

(ETA: I realize that with all of my woe-is-me, it might sound like I am alone here on Mt. Pity Party. And I am totally not. My husband is being awesome and doing everything he can to make things better. From cooking and cleaning and fetching me water and cookies to taking TD in another room to give LB and me alone time, or rather LB time to practice her throwing accuracy. Unfortunately all of his helpful awesomeness does not include mind control over LB.)

NaBloPoMo, 13

Friday the 13th?!? Spooky. Or not.

I started a new knitting project. While I was in labor. I haven't gotten far, but still, it's progress.


I did have some technical difficulties as the anesthesiologist who put in my epidural moved it and dropped five or so stitches and then it got caught on my purse and the yarn tore. But, a little fiddling here and a spit join there and I am back in business. Well, until TD's stocking kit arrives. I did order another one and paid for it, and am waiting for it to ship.

NaBloPoMo, 12

(Whoops! I did type this long and detailed post yesterday and then hit "save now" instead of "publish post." Not sure if this means I am DQd for NaBloPoMo or not, but I am leaving the original date stamp. So there.)

Today we had our first pediatrician appointment for The Deuce (TD ... I guess it is better than TB). Anyway, it was a totally different experience since my child was not starving and dehydrated. Granted she isn't a plump porker, but she's okay. Overall the experience was much easier this go around, though we still ended up with a referral to the lactation consultant. I think, after 30+ years, my boobs have comfortably settled into the fun bag category and don't want to move over into the working horse category. We'll see how it plays out, but if it doesn't work, that is okay, I have a fabulous bottle of Riesling with my name on it.

NaBloPoMo, 11

Night two of breastfeeding and I've already been reduced to tears ... um, crap?!?

I think I'll go with a "Happy Veteran's Day" and bury my head back in my pillow now.

NaBloPoMo, 10

Cheesy Joke #1: What time do you go to the dentist?
Cheesy Joke Answer #1: Tooth-thirty

Cheesy Joke #2: When do you wear your feet on your face?
Cheesy Joke Answer #2: When they're crow's feet.

Cheesy jokes courtesy of my during-labor popsicle stick.

And now, without further adieu, The Deuce (also known as Our Very Serious Little Girl)...

The Deuce

Having done a recap of LB's pregnancy journey, I figured I'd do the same for The Deuce. I have to admit this is pretty much a snooze for anyone not me, so, in an attempt to appease you for coming over here, I am providing a terrible joke. Enjoy!

Baby: My Father's name is Laughing and my mother name is Smiling.
Teacher: You Must be Kidding ...
Baby: No, that's my brother, I am Joking.


Since this pregnancy was wonderfully similar to the first one, as in easy peasy, there isn't much to say. But I am a talker, so I always have something to say. I wrote those last two sentences several months ago when I decided to recap this journey ... and proceeded to jinx myself circa week twenty-five. Say it with me, I'm an asshole. Carrying on.

A few months after LB was born (a/k/a when I no longer needed to get drunk to have sex for fear of something bad happening to my lady bits), we decided to try for another kid. Everyone knows that you get pregnant on the first try when you are going for number two so we look forwarded to a summer baby. Nothing happened. I started taking drugs for my PCOS. Nothing happened. Well, I mean something happened, hell, it happened at least five time a month, but the proverbial payoff was lacking. For the next eight months we tried. Again and again. My math skills suck and every other month, I would think I was late. I was not. I was a math-impaired tool. When we eventually got knocked up, it was quite anti-climactic as I had already had a Oh-I-think-I-am-pregnant-why-is-this-test-negative-oh-wait-Aunt-Flo-isn't-due-for-another-week moment. After repeatedly testing in one month because I can't add, the eventual positive test was regarded with a "Sure. Whatever."

Eventually there was a sense that maybe, just maybe, we got lucky again. Since I felt fine, as I did last time, I took it as a good thing. I was somewhat chipper and optimistic. Until I noticed The Rage. Well actually, RRRRAAAAGGGGEEEEE. I was ready to lose my shit at a moment's notice on anyone. I was surrounded by idiots and imbeciles and dickheads that talked about stupid shit and wouldn't shut up. At one point my husband was talking on and on to a cabinet salesman regarding cabinets we could not even come close to affording and I got so annoyed that I actually could see the word RAGE flashing in front of my eyes. I realized that it was hormonal, well somewhat, but it didn't make me any less angry. I kept wondering, why is everyone on the planet so fucking stupid and more importantly, WHY DO I HAVE TO DEAL WITH THEM? I decided that I was so angry because there was no baby; the pregany tests were lying. Obviously I was drinking from the crazy juice. So my first "new" symptom was The Rage; crazy and denial, they were old friends.

Eventually though, The Rage subsided and all was smooth and dandy. Well until I woke up in the middle of the night, sick as hell in the middle of the first trimester. I had food poisoning or a 24 hour stomach virus which caused me to puke. Repetitively and often. I called my OB and he gave me a nausea drug for cancer patients. It worked. I no longer tossed my cookies, but oh the stomach ache. I figured if there had been a human forming in there, it would have been evicted via vomit. My next doctor's appointment happily proved this theory wrong.

The repeated theme of, "Whoops, there goes the baby!" was present a lot in the first trimester. After the vomitathon, there was the tumble down the stairs in which I started at the top with Lady Bean in my arms but landed at the bottom alone, at some point seeming to have ejected her from my safe embrace with a mental, "Every man for himself!" I figured that if I was willing to ditch the, up until then, perfectly normal human in my arms, the one that I bonded with and love a whole lot, there is no way the pre-human inside me stood a chance.

When we finally made it to the second trimester, having seen ultrasound-ing proof that there was something moving (maybe a weather front) inside of me, I relaxed enough to agree to tell people that there is a slight chance that come November, I would be certifiably insane, or rather a parent to two.

Since I maintained my workout schedule and followed (sort of) my low carb diet, all things looked well and I was hunky dory. The second trimester was gonna be great! Up until the twenty-fifth week when I hit a bit of a rough patch. It started when I slid into the baby gate and broke my foot. I had to decide which was less undesirable: never walking again or nuking my baby with x-rays. I went with the x-rays and felt incredible guilt. More so than when I ate swordfish while pregnant with LB. Two days after I broke my foot, I was basically paralyzed from walking with a gimp. Broken foot + pregnancy back issues = paraplegic. As if that wasn't fun enough, at week twenty-six, I woke up with the most excruciating stomach pains ever. It hurt to even have the sheet on the bed touch my belly. An early morning trip to the doctor's revealed that I was a puss. I had musculoskeletal (the hardest word in the whole wide world to say) pain but all looked well. For what it is worth, I AM a puss, BUT the baby had moved from sideways (positioned from head at one of my hips to feet at the other) to up and down (normal). I hypothesized that this is what killed me. Nonetheless, later in week twenty-six I started to perk up. I was able to "walk" and get around. Which meant it was time for the next thing ... hello fever! For three days I ended up with a fever around one hundred-three degrees and was convinced I was cooking the The Deuce. As soon as we determined I had not cooked The Deuce, and that my health was returning to normal, my husband took a trip down the stairs. On his ass. He managed not to break anything but ended up with a bruise that looked like a tramp stamp tattoo of angle wings spanning his entire lower back and butt crack. And then he caught a cold. By the time week twenty-seven finished, I had been the antithesis of "second trimester easiness and glow" and I welcomed the third trimester with open mouth kisses and promises of illegal sexual acts if only we could get to November with no more shite. Apparently these promises paid off (though my lady bits are scared and fear having to pay up) as the third trimester rolled along smoothly.

And by smoothly I mean no major catastrophes. Did The Deuce flip over so she was breech? Yah. Repeatedly. In fact with all of her flipping back and forth, I suspect she will have a future in politics. Did I have excruciating sciatica in my ass cheek? Yes! Did I end up seeing a physical therapist who felt up my ass more than anyone other than my husband, so that I could, you know, move? You betcha. Did I feel ungainly and frumpy? Yes! But I stayed healthy and so did The Deuce. Well mostly. There was the whole SKIN CANCER thing at thirty-three weeks. Well not skin cancer, I am being dramatic, but you know, a mole that was hinky and had to go and then was still hinky and take a good chunk o' my knee with it. Which incidentally never happened because there are no surgeons in my state who are not booked months in advanced. So, as a fun post-partum treat, I have a large chunk of knee flesh removal to anticipate. And there were more colds because apparently I am a goddamn petri dish of funk. But in the grand scheme of things, all was well in the third trimester.

At thirty-five weeks I went to Rhinebeck and did not give birth amongst the sheep. The Deuce did make herself know and performed Tae Bo on my cervix, but she didn't fall out. She did maybe cause some dilation as I came back from Rhinebeck with a gaping cervix. I did mention to the doctor that I AM ONLY 36 WEEKS AND NOT READY TO HAVE A BABY YET and she said that was okay. She also said that The Deuce may have flipped over again and that if so, whenever we caught her positioned properly, they might just go ahead and induce. I said, WHAT? and then, I AM ONLY 36 WEEKS AND NOT READY TO HAVE A BABY YET and she said that was okay. I suspect she thought I was a bit unhinged and was appeasing me. So, you could say that at thirty-six weeks, I realized I was going to have a baby and um, maybe I should dig out some clothes for her, and get her sleeping quarters put together. I didn't do any of this, but I did realize I should. The following week I took the Deuce to Stitches East, twice, and she only caused my loosey goosey cervix to gape another centimeter. Incidentally, in case you couldn't tell by the over use, gaping cervix is fun to say even when it isn't your first pregnancy. Anyway, at thirty-seven weeks, my doctor scheduled my induction, on the chance that I did not go into labor before then. Given my gaping cervix, there was a chance that I could go into labor on my own. But I like order and predictability so I vetoed this idea. Which was actually a little hard being that my induction was scheduled for five in the fucking morning. REALLY? I asked the doctor why he did not like me and he laughed. I was not joking. I was nice, I made sure to bathe before appointments and I used breathe mints. What more could a girl do? Five a.m. Bahhhh.

Five a.m. notwithstanding, me and the gaping cervix were quite content to go forth with the status quo. At thirty-eight weeks, I had my final ultrasound (where the estimated weight was eight pounds, six ounces to eight pounds, ten ounces, or in my parlance - BIG) and a regular check up and all was fine. Incidentally, the appointments were on November 2, the day my physical therapist predicted I was going to go into labor. Being that she cured my sciatica by simply groping my ass, I feared her witchdoctor powers and spent most of the day with my legs tightly closed. I also seemed to realize that I was going to have a baby in SEVEN days and um, I REALLY should dig out some clothes for her, and get her sleeping quarters put together. Since I did not want to unseal my legs, I didn't do these things but I did locate the bin with the small clothes so that was something.

Over the next week I ended up going about my bidness with my four centimeter self. Well, except for the gym, I was quite paranoid about my water breaking as I was ellipticizing away. The baby never fell out, and I had a big whopping three contractions (though it might actually be two as I ate too much one night and may have experienced digestive ailments). A friend pointed out that Superman might have been the man of steel, but I could claim the cervix of steel! During this last week, my body decided it was done being pregnant and everything ached. The couch crippled me, the desk chair crippled me, even my bed crippled me. I couldn't find s single position that was not painful. It was awesome.

Which brings us to today, at 3:30 a.m. when I woke up (well, actually got out of bed, as I was unable to sleep from 2:00 a.m. on) and prepared to get ready to have a baby. Being that it was still dark out and my brain was not functioning, I was not too stressed. It also helped that it wasn't my first time at the proverbial rodeo.

Overall, I can't complain. I think this pregnancy was a lot harder on me physically. Probably because I am older. Knocking on the door of "advanced maternal age" and all. Or because I can't walk without falling and I spent the first two-thirds of my life baking in the sun. These things tend to negatively affect one's physical well being. Emotionally, it was somewhat easier. I still missed having family. but I did have LB's pregnancy as a barometer of what I could expect and I did not have as much time to dwell on my missing family as LB kept me on a short leash and liked to crack the whip. MORE MILF NOW! MORE! MORE! MORE MILF!

Also, my concerns and nerves and fears have not been on the pregnancy and birth so much as LB. I went through a period where I was extremely annoyed at my in-laws for not offering to help us out with LB during our delivery time. When friends offered help, I said thanks but didn't commit because I was sure some family member would offer to help. They didn't and I was pissed, mostly on my husband's behalf, but a little on LB's and mine too. I am going to do everything in my power to make sure LB and The Deuce don't have this type of relationship and are instead more likely to drop everything to help each other out. It did turn out okay as I'm really fortunate to have friends that were willing to help and even watch LB for an entire day at a time. I've concentrated on that, and managed to let go of any in-law angst. Also, I have centered my angst on LB and not fucking her up with our new addition. There is definitely a part of me that feels like we are about to ruin her life. She is going from one hundred percent attention to less than fifty. She is going from being doted on and humored, to, well, not being doted on and humored nearly as much. It is going to rock her world and that totally has to suck. As an only child, I suspect that I feel nervous about this a lot more than my husband, who as the youngest of six was on the flip side. Hopefully LB is young enough that it won't send her into therapy for the rest of her life. And if not, well, universal health care should cover her phyche bills, right?

NaBloPoMo, 9

You Know You're Up Too Early When ...

The glass of ice water you brought to bed with you still has ice cubes in it when you wake up.

NaBloPoMo, 8

I guess I should assume that these little tomatoes are not going to ripen, you know, being that the rest of the plant is dead, Dead, DEAD, eh?

NaBloPoMo, 7

A little over a week ago, I sent my husband the following two pictures:


I explained in my e-mail that I had heard someone banging on the front door and when I opened the door, I was greeted by this guy. I made a snarky comment regarding the recruitment of various organized religions, smirked at my own cleverness, and then went on with my day.

This my friends, is called hubris, or maybe karma. Either way, both hubris and karma always, repeat ALWAYS, bite you in the ass. Especially when Mother Nature is involved.

This afternoon I decided to clean out a space in the basement to make room for some tubs o' yarn. Well one thing led to another and I stumbled across this:


That is where the *&^%!#$ squirrel chewed through our house and into my basement. Yes, that's right. Some freaky religious squirrel managed to break through our formidable (NOT) defenses and chill out in our basement! Hell, we even found a friggen half-eaten acorn on the other side of the basement.

Needless to say, we shop vac'ed the crap out of the hole (and by we, I mean my husband, the whole thing made me squirrelly ... ha, ha, boo). Now we are left with:


The only good thing I can say about this mess is that last weekend, when we blindly sealed up the hole from the outside, not knowing what had happened and just trying to patch the random hole we had found, we did not seal the bastard in the basement.

In light of past experiences, I feel comfortable saying that MOTHER NATURE IS A VENGEFUL BITCH.

NaBloPoMo, 6

Ten Things I'd Like For Christmas
a/k/a I have Nothing Interesting to Say

• Clean floors
• Snow
• Bumble & Bumble Curl Conscious Curl Creme for Fine to Medium Hair
• Two words: Louis. Vuitton.
• A healthy family
• A year membership to the Veggie-of-the-Month Club
• A winning lottery ticket
• Reese's Peanut Butter Cups (preferably already unwrapped and waiting for devourment)
• A Miami Hurricane National Championship
• Clean floors (I wasn't kidding)

NaBloPoMo, 5

There once was a man from Nantucket,
Who's dic....

Oops! Not here to recite dirty nursery rhymes, but instead to educate, enlighten, and broaden your horizons. Okay, who am I kidding? Not that either. I'm here to tell you about the public graft I saw today, IN MY FRONT YARD!

A little background ... Our street successfully petitioned to have a sewer line put in so that we could get rid of our septic systems. You may recall, we had strange happenings in our plumbing and septic lines and so when given the opportunity to give the town a new car's worth of money for the right to send our poop down its pipes, we said HELL YES! The work commenced sometime in September and has been ongoing ever since. Part of the work included replacing the main water line that runs down our street. And somehow that meant that our (the street's, not ours personally as our estate is too modest for its very own) fire hydrant was moved about ten feet over. Not sure why, other than the fact that the town is charging us an arm and leg for this project and so they needed to make it look good?

In any event, that brings us to today, when I found myself coming home from the doctor's and having to wait for a huge wide-load truck to pass before I could continue up my street. I was maybe fifty yards from my driveway, so I pulled over to the side of the road behind a parked silver truck that had an official looking plaque thing attached to the license plate stating "FIRE CHIEF." I assume that the huge wide-load truck was blocking me which is why I was able to see one of the workers hand the Fire Chief a HUGE WAD OF CASH. HUGE. Now, maybe it wasn't some sort of pay off. Maybe there was no corruption and our new fire hydrant will work just fine. Maybe the worker was the Fire Chief's son and he was paying his dad back. Maybe they had a friendly wager on the Yankee game (27 World Series Championships!!). Heck, maybe the Fire Chief is a bookie collecting is illegal gains. Whatever the case, I can say with certainty that I saw a man take a wad of money from another man, fold it in half, put it in his pocket and then walk to his truck. A truck that had a special thing attached to its license plate that stated "FIRE CHIEF." And for the record, if you are going to do suspicious stuff, you shouldn't do it while driving a car that advertises who you are.

Anyway, the whole thing seemed hinky and I did not like it one bit. No siree. I felt a little dirty. Uncomfortable. After the huge wide-load truck passed and I could drive, I pulled up my driveway, into my garage, and intentionally did not make eye contact with the two men. I am pretending like I did not see a thing. Not. A. Thing. Well, unless there is a fire and we don't have sufficient water in our new fire hydrant and someone's house burns down. Then you bet your ass I am SO TELLING.

I said during my last pregnancy that if I was found murdered, it was probably Crazy. All the gift giving insanity and baby lust sending her over the edge. This time, if you find me dead in a pool of my own blood, look to the Fire Chief and his money grubbing self.

NaBloPoMo, 4

I'm not what you would call a "good" pet parent. Don't get me wrong, I love Dogarella to bits and I keep her fed and watered and walked. And I love on her lots and lots, but sometimes I skimp on the extras, like puppy playground trips or you know, grooming. The grooming thing might seem like no big deal since she isn't the kind of dog that needs multiple baths or hair cuts. Actually, though, the grooming thing is extra reprehensible since I bought the uber fancy (read: expensive) Furminator so that I wouldn't have to groom her as much as one would without the fancy device. It's as if I came, I saw, I conquered, I gave up. In other words, I suck.

My predilection for grooming laziness, however, was over-powered by my procrastination for stuff needed to do for baby-on-the-way and I pulled out the Furminator yesterday. Of course, Murphy's Law was at work, so LB woke up from her nap, ten minutes into the grooming process. Nonetheless, I think that after ten minutes of Furminating I had more dog fur, than dog.


And for those of you currently freaked the fuck out because, EW! DOG FUR! FLOOR! Be at peace. I cleaned it all up and vacuumed and the floor was returned to its normal spotless state, also known as, not all that spotless, but fur tumbleweed free.

NaBloPoMo, 3

Dear Taurus Driving Douchebag,

Yah, I'm the one who called the cops on you and I hope you are rotting in jail right now. You should never have left your cute little beagle in your car with the windows all rolled up. It might have been in the upper 60's on the outside of your station wagon, but it was a heck of a lot hotter on the inside. Would it have killed you to crack one of the four windows in your car? It looked like you tried to hermetically seal your pooch in so people wouldn't hear him howling. I suspect he was howling because he was hot and miserable. People like you make me want to believe in Hell, just so I know that you'll get your just deserts.

You are a dickhead.

- The Lady Who Called the Cops on YOU!

NaBloPoMo, 2

Four. This is my magic number. In baseball, the magic number is the number of games that a team needs to win to ensure winning its division. For me, my magic number is the number of centimeters my cervix must gape before I decide to get off of my arse and do stuff around the house to prepare for the baby that is, apparently, on her way. For the record, OB's will let you wander the face of the Earth with a loosey goosey cervix. Also for the record, my husband says four centimeters is out of the loosey goosey camp and solidly in gaping.



No matter how you slice it, four got me to finish culling my yarn stash, empty the bookcases that need to leave The Deuce's future room, and pack up the yarn I plan to keep. Now if I could get to the other gazillion things on my list of crap to do, I'd be golden.

NaBloPoMo, 1

Setting myself up for failure. That is what you could say I am doing as I am intending to try and complete NaBloPoMo this year, you know, for the one month where I am suppose to give birth to a new human being (as opposed to an old human being, those are much harder to birth, but the aftermath is easier, or so says the urban legend). So being that I expect to have no time at all, I thought this would be a great time to rediscover my blogging vivre. I am a douchebag. I am also, not filled with anything of interest to say. Thus, I am following the lead of the NaBloPoMo Leader ...

Things I Do NOT Like

• Going to the post office
• Bad grammar
• Dry pumpkin bread
• Broken leaf blowers
• Scissors that do not cut
• My boyfriend A-Rod getting drilled a third time in his last five at bats (at the time I am writing this, who knows he may get hit more, 'twas only the first inning when I typed that sentence). Unintentional? My ass. Boo Phillies, boo!

Things I Do Like

• Reeses Peanut Butter Cups
• Having a date certain of when my child should be born - or T-8 days, holy shit I'm not ready yet
• Giving away a lot of yarn that though I like, I will never use, to people who will hopefully use it
• Japanese Maple Trees in the Fall
• Holmes on Homes
• Osprey, which though not done is turning out nicely, despite my model's apparent antipathy

Happy Halloween

One Quarter

One ruffle down, seventeen gazillion to go.



But that is okay because I saw a completed Osprey at the Webs booth at Stitches East and I liked it. Which, you know, since I am knitting one, is a good thing.

Speaking of Webs and Stitches East, I was amazed to see it carried Socks That Rock (who knew? It's not on the website) and that there was no pandemonium regarding same, unlike The Fold at Rhinebeck which has been uber jammed for the last four years I have been. Why is The Fold's STR so much more popular than Webs? Do they coat it in crystal meth?

Abuse

Due to poor planning on my part, this past Thursday I found myself at Walgreens, at noon (instead of at home, where I really needed to be, feeding and napping my human), in search of a birthday card to go in a gift that had needed to be mailed two days earlier. Had I not called to apologize for my lateness and said that I was mailing the gift that day, I could have continued procrastinating, but no. I opened my pie hole and shoved in my foot, and thus, found myself shopping at an inopportune moment. Nonetheless, I knew I was working on borrowed time and I was trying to hurry. I tossed Lady Bean in a cart, grabbed my purchases, including the card, and paid. And at this point all was well, with only minimal fussing from LB. I went to the cart return area, by the door, and prepared to head to the parking lot when I made a stupid, STUPID, mistake. I (did I mentioned STUPIDLY?) asked LB if she wanted me to carry her or if she wanted to walk. She opted to walk. Our rule is simple, you walk, you hold my hand. She knows this. She, however, was hungry and tired and wanted to walk sans Mommy and her handholding self. When told this was not a choice, she threw herself down on the floor and threw a fit of the highest order. There was screaming and tears and kicking and flailing. I stared at her in a kind of defeated and resigned way and in between wails repeated that if she wanted to walk she needed to hold my hand, all the while offering her my hand. She wailed, "NOOOOOOO!" and kicked and flailed some more. Good times. But wait! They get better.

It was at this point where an elderly gentleman in the line to pay raises his voice to tell me that I was an idiot. "She's obviously tired. She is screaming and throwing a tantrum because she needs a nap." Then, to the lady next to him, "That little girl needs a nap." And then back, loudly, to me, "You need to take her home and get her some sleep." After looking at him with my mouth agape, I replied, "Huh. Now I get elder abuse," and then I scooped up my screaming kid, two bags of crap and walked out. The End.

Okay, I didn't say that, but I wished I had. Dude, my kid is having a fucking meltdown. In the middle of a store. Blocking the exit. I know there is a problem. Thanks Captain Obvious. I mean, really? Do you honestly think you are helping the situation? Offering useful information? Meaningful insight? I'm just saying, THIS is why people beat up old people.

Yarntopia

Tomorrow I shall be at Rhinebeck touching a whole lot of yarny goodness despite the cold, wet weather. I'll be up at five o'something (actually, considering my insomnia, I will probably up at 4:51 a.m., the time at which my goddamn internal clock has reset itself) and ready to meet my homies at 6:30 a.m., well, after I stop at Starbucks because even though I am on the decaf, I still get a perk from the coffee goodness. I am assuming Starbucks is open that early. Huh. Maybe I should check that out. In any event, I am looking forward to Rhinebeck, even in my technically full-term preggers, waddling, sciatic state. In fact, even with me being me and the weather being the weather, the only downside I am seeing is that Lady Eleanor won't be making it. She is perfect for the weather, being that she is basically a horse blanket, but not-so-perfect for the occasion of wanting to be comfortable and unencumbered with shit. As you can see from the pictures, she is BIIIIGGGGG. I had kind of hoped to wear her, get pictures at Rhinebeck and use them for my nine month late FO post. Since it's not going to happen, I'll just do my FO post now.

The fringe is probably my favorite part. Makes me think of fishing ... stuff. Weird, huh? Nonetheless, that is what initially turned me on to this project. I loved the knotty goodness.



As I recall, the pattern requires one strand of yarn for each fringe, but I doubled or tripled it. I wanted substantial fringe, and being that the blanket shawl is so big and substantial, I think this was a good idea. The big substantialness is both good and bad. Yes, Ellie is cozy. But she is bulky. Heck, she totally hides my baby belly.



There is no using this as a scarf. When I tried, I looked like a woman in a dysfunctional birka. It doesn't go over my head, but damn if it doesn't try. She also is so heavy that if you move your, well, anything, the weight of the shawl shifts and down she falls. Being that I had no photographer, I was kinda stuck in weird, stiff poses in front of the mirror. When I sneezed, well, I had to start all over trying to get her up and on since she slithered to the ground. I suspect the the major reason for the bulk and heft was my yarn choice. I did make the shawl bigger, but I am bigger so my body should hold her up. At least that makes sense in my head. In any event, my yarn was stiff and bulky and I think that it gave Ellie a little too much body.



The good thing about this bulky yarn is that the wrong side is just as pretty as the right side, and at first blush, it is hard to tell the wrong from the right.



Overall I like Ellie. She used a lot of yarn. A. LOT. OF. YARN. Well, my version did anyway. But I like her and will futz around the house with her all winter long. And, should I come into some money to buy A. LOT. OF. YARN., I would make her again (and again).



Yarn: Noro Silk Garden Chunky, Color 8, Lot A, 28 skeins.
Needles: Addi Circs, size 6 mm (US 10)
Pattern: Lady Eleanor from Scarf Style
Time: Two months.
Care: Dry clean.

Pains

Right now my husband is in Las Vegas. Without me. Thus, the awesomeness of him being in Vegas is slightly less awesome as far as I am concerned. But then, I am selfish like that. I suppose if he comes home with a several thousand dollars extra, or even a few honeys, I'll re-evaluate my position, but for now I am merely at "Yeah for him." I'm glad he is off having fun with his bud, his boy, his manfriend, but I'd rather him be here having fun with me. In any event, he is gone and I have been single-parenting. I thought it was totally going to suck, but actually it has not been as terrible as I thought it would be. Don't get me wrong, each day has had it's share of drama, or trauma (think worm in tub, fall off of landing, and rabid deer), but all in all, it hasn't been that bad. What has been bad is the pain in my butt. Literally, I have pregnancy induced (at least I hope that it is from The Deuce and not something else) sciatica. Which sounds kind of benign but in fact causes me such pain that I end up frozen in queer ass positions and looking like a total toolbag. Mind you, I could care less about looking like a toolbag, I like to think this is one of the skills I excel at, but it really feels like adding insult to injury when you are stuck, hunched over, with your arse half in and half out of the car.

On the upside, sitting on the couch knitting? It doesn't cause me excruciating pain so I have made quite a bit of progress on Osprey. Well, quite a bit for the me as of late, which is to say that I am almost done with the long band bit. I still have an inch (which should get done tonight as I finish out the DVR'd Say Yes to the Dress - LOVE. THAT. SHOW. Want to get married again. Took out my wedding dress to put it on for shits and giggles!) and then I am on to the ruffles which is more than two-thirds of the scarf. But still. Progress. Which I need to make since in five or so weeks I need to start another C'mas stocking.

Which brings me to a question: Do you think I should buy and knit another one of the Googleheims kits? I loved and hated Lady Bean's stocking. Stocking? Pretty, though possibly cursed. Company that put the stocking kit together? Less than ideal. Obviously I have learned my lesson as far as getting the stocking wet, which I shall NEVER. EVER. DO. AGAIN. So I don't foresee any problems with the stocking itself. No problem with the stocking means no need to deal with the company. On the other hand, do I really want to support this company? Give it my (or rather, my husband's) hard earned cash? Especially since I was told I would be given a free replacement stocking and instead got bupkis. What do you think?

Clues

When I looked and saw that I had poop under my fingernail? That's when I knew the day was taking a down turn.

Addition

Why make a decision when you can start a(nother) new project?


Note that I am making (or intending to make, at present, right now, who knows with my current knitting ADD if I will stick with it) this scarf DESPITE the fact that the model has crimped hair.


Yah, crimped friggin hair. Which, incidentally, looks a lot like the base of the scarf thus far.

Uncertain

I'm writing today from the basement of my local hospital.* I'm here for an NST (a routine non-stress test for The Deuce) and not some calamity. Considering my luck, or lack there of, lately, clarification of my visit is probably helpful. Anyway, I'm here relaxing with my knitting and my CrackBaby and have a dilemma with my ugly recycling bag. Instead of making an actual decision, I thought I'd ponder my options out loud, well on the internet, via the itty bitty phone keyboard. In other words, I really am not feeling like making a decision. Part of my problem is that though the bag is indeed an ugly creation, I want to try and minimize the ugly.


At present, I have used two balls of yarn, one orange and one gray, and I have two balls of yarn left, again one orange and one gray. My dilemma is which of those to use next. Should I use my entire second ball of grey next, making the middle all grey; thus, having the bottom and top/handle all orange and not really striped. This might look unsymmetrical and odd (because the base of the bag is orange and only a row or two of the body part is orange and so when full, the orange on the bottom would be a lot less showy). Or, should I do orange next and have the top and handle all gray? This would be striped but may be striped in an odd way, again because of the only minimal orange at the bottom body part of the bag.


I realize that there is a third, and obviously least desirable in work involved, option. It would be to throw in some orange, say a round or two, then use all of the gray and finally finish up with more orange. This would add some orange in the middle balancing out the bottom and the top orange bits. I'm not sure I am slick enough to make the orange segments even, but they would be more even than with the other two options. I think. End-weaving wise, this would suck. So the question is, would the, albeit minor, aesthetic improvement be worth the extra effort. I'm not sure.

*But I am posting from home since I can't seem to post pictures to blogger via my phone. I am technologically unsavvy.

Vacuous

Silence has reigned supreme over here. I think because I am out of the blogging habit. Also, because I have had nothing of import to report, or rather, nothing funny. LB has started talking in her sleep which sends me into fits of giggles, but is not funny to the casual observer. I did have a mole removed on my knee that is "abnormal" and now a bigger chunk is going to be removed, which is totally hysterical, no? No? Oh, um, well. Peanut butter jelly time, peanut butter jelly time. Let's see, a while back we had a girls' weekend in Boston and went wedding dress shopping for Kay. It was a good time but I can't remember making an ass of myself in such way that would be worthy of blogging. Uh, I went to Florida to see Depeche Mode in concert. It was fun and I found out that I am attracted to rock stars who are gay and dance like gay men channeling Buffalo Bill (check out his dance around 2:17 and then 2:30, somehow it is hot on Dave Gahan and not so creepy, or maybe I am twisted, or both). Right. You don't want to hear me gush about Dave and his hot gay serial killer vibe like a thirteen year old girl rhapsodizing about ... Zac Efron? Who do thirteen year old girls rhapsodize about?

Despite the lack of funny, I have had some crazy. Well not Crazy, actually that is not true, I did get a note from Crazy. She forwarded me some junk mail with a note pointing out that Office Manager had failed to mail the stuff to me and congratulating me on The Deuce. I never mentioned that to OM, or even Kay, because I have decided not to share stuff that serves no purpose other than to hurt someone's feelings. Which sounds virtuous, but is not. Recently someone opined that I was "ripped off" on some repair work and I was really ticked. Why would you say that to someone? Let's assume that I did get ripped off, it's too late to do anything about it now. Do you honestly think that telling me that I was bent over is somehow constructive or going to benefit me in any way? No, you're telling me that to make yourself look good. You apparently know so much more that I do and would not have been ripped off. You are awesome and I am a schmuck. That is what you are saying. As it happens, I did not, in fact, get ripped off, I did get pissed though and have decided that I am better than this other person and so shall no longer say stuff that serves no purpose other than to make someone else feel like an assheel. So you see, this prohibition on sharing certain information is rather self-serving, and not virtuous. Also, for what it's worth, there is a good chance that someone at some point is going to piss me off and I am going to say something mean just to be mean because I am not virtuous and that is how I roll. Anyway, I digress. A lot. Though I got a letter from Crazy, it was sans gift, and not like the crazy I was going to share. Crazy, as in my own personal and not the person, has been visiting me in the late night hours and THAT is where I was intending to go.

You see, lately I have had the urge to spend. Or rather to buy. Stuff. Stuff I don't need, but I like and I want. Being 'retired' means that we are on a budget and I can't buy frivolous fun things a la Louis Vuitton. Well I could, but I'd be fiscally stupid, so I've restrained myself thus far. Also, I don't think I could sneak a purse, let alone a new car, by my husband without him noticing something was up and then I would have to explain and well, just no. So I've been good and not gone on a spending spree. That being said, from 4:00 a.m. to 6:30 a.m., when I am awaken with an urge to pee and am the unable to fall back asleep (DAMN YOU PREGNANCY INSOMNIA!), I try to plead with Lottery Karma. This is the part where I dance with crazy, not there part where I want to buy pretty things because really, that's not crazy. Anyway, at this queer time of the day ... morning ... night ... whatever, I explain to the voice in my head (a sign crazy could be in play), which I think that Lottery Karma (like Santa Claus? come on! crazy!) can hear, that I don't need to win hundreds of millions of dollars. No, I only need a few hundred thousand - after taxes of course - so that I can pay off our student loans, and mortgage, and car. It all seems so logical in the moment. I'm not being greedy. Just asking for a nugget to pay off our debt so that I can live a lifestyle that I'd like to live. Basically I am negotiating with my own inner monologue regarding a fictional influx of a large amount of money. Obviously this is crazy and I know it. This, however, will not stop my silent conversation tonight.

I likey

You know Barney? The purple dinosaur with green spots? An awful song that make your head explode? Well, it turns out he has two redeeming qualities: saddle bags AND cellulite!

The End of Summer

I suspect that we won't get any more pool time in before well, next year. Well, outdoor pool time. Outdoor pool time in our kiddie pool that was suppose to be the dog's pool but that it a whole 'nother story for a whole 'nother time. So, I have Lady Bean and her final pool picture of the season!



Now if my tomatoes could just ripen, PRONTO!

Blah

I have three (one, two, three) ongoing knitting projects, which is frankly two too many. Unfortunately, I do not like any of them. Which means I am pondering starting yet another project. This is not a good idea. But it is probably a better idea than hitting the Louis Vuitton store or shopping for bras.

I am gestating fetus who never stops moving. She is constantly fussing around in there and this has caused me some angst over just how active she is going to be once she is no longer confined my the limits of my insides. I am trying to ignore this thought process.

I no longer have to figure out what to do about my one pompom socks. A trip through the washing machine took care of the remaining pompom. Actually, I guess I still need a plan. I can wear them, have my shoes eat them, and get pissed. Or, I can buy another ball of the yarn to make two new pompoms. Or, I can give them to a smaller footed person in the hopes that her shoes won't eat them.

I am craving pumpkin bread but am trying to be good and watch my sugar and carbs (emphasis on trying). Being that pumpkin bread is all sugar and carb, I really shouldn't make any. I did search the internet for a lo carb recipe and found two. Both sound ... interesting? But I suspect that if I make them and they suck, well then, what? The world will come to an end? Probably not. But still. Traditionally the stuff I make from scratch is better than the pre-mixed boxed stuff, so that would lead one to think, hope, suspect, delude one's self into believing, that the lo carb from scratch recipe won't be too bad. We'll have to see.

I am no longer wearing my gimp shoe and had grand plans of celebrating the gimp shoe's life span with a photographic tour of all of the hand knit socks I wore with it. Mind you I wore that shoe for almost six weeks and only have six sock pictures to show for it. Not exactly good follow through on my part. And NO, I DID NOT ONLY WEAR ONE PAIR OF SOCKS PER WEEK! I am not THAT dirty. Anyway, I have the six pictures sitting in the computer, so I am gonna post them. Forgive me.




My cherry (or grape, I can't remember) tomato plants turned out not to be total duds. The one I planted months after buying it gave me four tomatoes. Not bad considering the neglect. The other one, the topsy turvy one, gave me ten thus far. I have another five sitting on it that are green. I'm not sure if I should leave them on the vine and hope they ripen despite the colder weather. I don't think they would ripen if I plucked them and brought them in, which is I why I am leaning toward letting them sit on the vine. In any event, I have a grand total of fifteen tomatoes which is better than nothing I suppose. LB ate fourteen of them so that is kind of cool. Unless she develops a third arm. In which case, I am a terrible parent!

My basil rocked this season and I still have a tiny bit left I can harvest, if I get off my butt. I must have somehow redeemed myself in the Basil JuJu department.

The dill weed? Total fucking dud. Enough said.

Fifty-seven

There are many reasons I love my husband, but every now and then he does something that causes me to add a new reason to the list. To wit:



I was gone for the weekend and he taught the Bean how to put her cup in the cup holder in the car. Do you realize how much of my life I have spent searching for a random cup that she has dropped while trying to drive? Well NO MORE! I'd like to say that if I knew the back seat had a cup holder, I would have taught her this neat trick, but yah, probably not.