Friday, December 29, 2006


Tuesday, I believed that I was acclimating to the lack of sleep. I was beginning to feel as though maybe I could deal with this, that perhaps one could convince one's self that sleep deprivation was a state of mind, and then talk one's self out of it. I did some dishes. I picked up some of the Christmas hurricane that still claims our living room. I made plans to go out later in the week. Tuesday was a good day.

Wednesday, all of that time that I spent feeling good about myself and doing things caught up with me. In fact, I think the entire past three weeks of baby feeding, shopping, holliday planning, and everything else that I was doing instead of sleeping caught up with me. Wednesday, I lay in bed trying to decide whether I was more tired or more hungry, and since the food was a lot farther away, I drank some water, fed the baby, and we both went back to sleep. Wednesday was over before I really knew that it started, because I never really went to sleep or woke up; I was just trapped in some mad, grinding, purgatorial nightmare in which a little elf demanded to gnaw on my flesh and refused to stop the squealing/grunting baby dinosaur fussing for a single instant.

Thursday, I recovered from Wednesday. I watched random things the TiVo had caught (yay TiVo for Christmas! We are so spoiled!), patiently saving the Venture Brothers marathon for Carl and I to watch when he came home. Which we did.

And Today, I bring you heartwarming tales of motherhood that include the phrase "grinding, purgatorial nightmare." The saving grace of this week is as follows: At the center of the all the haze and blur that this elf has made of my world, there is a bubble of clarity, where I am accutely aware of every tiny move that she makes, and greatful for it. I am greatful for her little fist earnestly clutching my thumb while she eats. I am greatful for the opportunity to watch her eyes change color from the murky mud-blue they were at birth to whatever they plan on being in the future. Right now, they are a beautiful, faceted crystal gray, ringed with the darkest indigo... Today is a better day.

Sunday, December 24, 2006

Merry Christmas!

I hope yours will be as good as mine:
warm and squishy like a full diaper...
...tender and delicious like baby toes.

Saturday, December 23, 2006

I Love My Friends

Response from K-Dawgg:

"I could only image the zombie like states, but isn't that what you learned in college? How to function on minimal sleep? But I guess this project does not really have a due date. Well it did, but that was the draft print. You have to wait a few years for it to become self sufficient."

(To be filed under "Proof That K-Dawgg is Totally Geeking Out in H-Burg")

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Steph: It's okay. This is totally a free-be Christmas for you. You had a baby. Everyone knows that. You don't have to do anything if you don't want to.

Mo: Yeah, like, I could wrap up random crap from around my house, and people would just understand. 'Why did she give us a butter dish?' *shrug* 'It's okay. She had a baby.'

Steph: 'Yeah, but it still has butter in it!'

Everyone needs butter. Unless you are one of those people who doesn't like food to taste good. In which case, you need to loosen up...enjoy your life more, and butter is an excellent present for you. That or a nice pair of non-bunching panties.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
My one and only crossdressing friend from college: Holy crap! These are strange and exciting times. Way to go, kiddo!
Indeed they are, brother. Indeed they are.

Tuesday, December 19, 2006

Email Update To K-Dawgg

...I've had a stream of relative-type visitors. There's no way I'd be trotting out a newborn to tour the greater DelCo area, just so they could poke at her. That would be silly. And besides, there's this thing about giving birth; there is recovery time involved. And also, babies keep you up all night. Or at least, they wake you up three or four times a night, which makes for sleepy zombie-like days. Which makes one less inclined to go anywhere, do anything, or respond to emails in a timely fashion.

There is a rediculous Christmas outfit already. There are pictures. I will post them soon, I promise. ("soon" of course is a relative term. "soon" could mean by Christmas; it could also mean by Easter.)

The dog is sad most of the time that he can't come in the living room during the day, that he doesn't get played with as much as he used to, and that his bones have all been chewed down to nubs and no one has replaced them with new bones, as per the usual arangement. The dog is also very concerned about the sound the breast pump machine makes, and wishes to rescue us from it whenever it is turned on. He also wishes to chase kitties behind the Christmas tree, thus sending ornaments flying in all directions. He does not understand why this is not as fun for us as it is for him.

Christmas shopping so far has involved some online shopping that will probably not get here in time, a toaster from my mom, framed pictures of the baby, and inexplicable things from WalMart. I hope everyone likes random crap arriving four days after Christmas, cause that's what they are getting. Except for the baby pictures. They are not crap. They are good, and everyone recieving them will be overjoyed.....

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

In Which He Challenges the Spawn

Carl: haHA! I shall now change your diaper!!
*places baby on couch, whips bad old diaper off*

Wendy: *pees*

Carl: *Claps new diaper onto baby butt* Ha! I am swift and crafty! What else you got, huh?

Wendy: *smirks*

Carl: *tosses diaper #2 away, turns for diaper #3*

Wendy: *projectile poos at him*

And she got some distance on that one, across the couch and onto the floor. He had to pull a mad Matrix move to not get hosed with baby cheese. Honestly, I've never seen him so limber.

I heart you, Wendy. I heart you sooooo.

Thursday, December 07, 2006


Wendy Skye
December 3
2:24 pm
7 lb 9 oz; 19 in

Saturday, December 02, 2006


Six different people have called us since yesterday to find out if anything has "happened," how I "feel," and in the case of my Dad, "What the hell I'm waiting for."

Well, um....we finally put curtains in the bedroom, I feel a little hungry, and I'm waiting for my paycheck so I can go Christmas shopping. (Or if you are Dad, I'm waiting a whole week to tell you after I actually do give birth, just for that.)

No, friends and family, despite today being my due date, I am still the radiant, blooming vessel that I was yesterday. I'm simply festering with maternal glow. See the festering glow lines?

Aqualass is still blissfully reclining amongst my various organs and squiggly-spooches. She is happily oblivious that she will soon be expected to turn my "personal space" inside-out. She is so established in there, I am starting to think that she has no intention of making an entrance this week, next week, or really, ever. Of course, until she decides to do something like this:

...which, by the way, is her favorite thing to do. Though she is cozy and warm, and appreciates the chocolate milk I send her way, she sometimes feels a little cramped, and needs to assert her selfhood by way of jamming her sharp little feet into my ribs and shoving as hard as she can in the opposite direction, sometimes with her elbows. She especially likes to assert her selfhood just as I am trying to go to sleep. Right now she is doing it with complete disregard for my desire to blog, and entirely in support of her own desire for Thai food.

So, yeah. I'll get back to you on that. I promise.

Friday, December 01, 2006

Dukus Updatus

I haven't written enough here about Duke. Seeing as the fairies are about to pull a baby out of the cabbage patch any day now, I probably won't want to write about much at all for a while. SO here is a Duke update while I still feel like it.

While Duke is still my special Fluff-Fluff Marshmallow Head, he is no longer the little puppy-wuppy-wumpkins who could walk under the coffee table after cats without ducking or pick up single moms at Dairy Queen just by wiggling his adorable wumpkins body at them. At seven or eight months, Fluff-Fluff is growing into quite a respectable sized Dog.

Despite his monstrosity and dinasaur feet, Duke is still a puppy who CANNOT BE TRUSTED. This means he spends a lot of time gated into the kitchen, where he listens to NPR coverage of world events and covets things on the counter. Oh, how he longs for those forbidden treasures from above...

Sometimes, he is so overwhelmed with covetous envy (and concern for the developing crisis in Darphur) that he takes out his angst on his own belongings. Like his bed: a comfy, simple, fabric-covered piece of foam which inexplicably cost $45. BAD FLUFF FLUFF!

When he is not busy coveting or mulling over politics, Duke's leisure time is filled with such activities as chewing kitty heads, thwarting the effects of evil-eye from Mrs. Prissy-Pants Kayla via a wet nose up her butt, and convincing others to play his favorite game, "Disgusting Rope."

Disgusting Rope is a complex battle of strategy, wherin a very smart dog somehow convinces very silly people to hold the slime-coated stringy end of a purple rope while he gets to hold the drier, knotted end, and then pulls those people out of their chairs with it. This game can go on for hours. People in this house play Disgusting Rope differently. When presented with Rope, Erin usually flees the room, and I tend to throw it far away from me. Carl, however, has embraced Disgusting Rope as fun Man/Dog bonding time. The prospect of fun bonding time causes Carl to do strange things. Like place Disgusting Rope in his mouth. Why, Carl? Why? It is saturated in dog spit! You go brush your teeth now!

I can forgive this gross disregard for my tender sensibilities, because bonding time often results in adorable puppy piles. No, not the sexy 19-year-old-girl-filled kind of puppy piles from Victoria's Secret catalogs and our college days; the other kind. The wholesome kind, with actual puppies. Well, one actual puppy, and one grown man who loves his puppy so much that he acts like a ten year old, uses the puppy as a Fluff-Fluff pillow, and forgets that only an hour ago he was standing over the shredded kitty litter box, in a pile of cardboard and litter, demanding, "Why did we want a dog, again?"

While Making Out

"Mmm....we have garlic breath."
*kiss kiss*

"....mmm...yeah, we do..."

"...and by we, I mean you."

Italian food really does inspire that special kind of romance.

Monday, November 27, 2006

They Probably Did That in the 60's

Steph: But now we're grown-ups and have rooms and beds for that sort of thing.
Me: Mmm hmm.
Steph: Besides, our car way too small.
Me: I can't really talk about this, because I'm sitting here with Carl's Mom and step-dad having coffee and desert.
Carl's Mom and step-dad: *ignoring, ignoring*
Steph: Oh. Ok. Well, I'll catch you later, then.

Carl's Mom and step-dad: *avoiding eye contact*

Me: Well, now you think I was saying bad things about you or something. Car sex. She was talking about car sex.
Step-dad: Oh!
Me: You two aren't a couple of squares. I can say car sex to you.
Step-dad: Really?? Hey, thanks!

(See how I smoothed that over? Totally smooth. That's me.)

Friday, November 24, 2006

BLACK Friday

I woke up around four this morning, and couldn't get back to sleep. I illogically link this to the two (TWO!) turkey dinners I enjoyed yesterday, but it probably had more to do with this:

Aqualass: HI!
Me: What.
Aqualass: I'm hungry. Lets go!
Me: There were two dinners. Two. You are not hungry.
Aqualass: Yes. I am. But no leftovers. Let's go to the store for pumpkin muffins. And Walmart. Walmart is open now. Walmart! For SHOPPING!
Me: That's stupid. I don't want to go to Walmart. FOR ANYTHING!
Aqualass: Now I have hiccups. Hic. Hic. Hic. You know what I bet? I bet it doesn't feel like hic hic hic in your guts I bet it feels like THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD.
Me: Hey, wanna go to Walmart?

So we were at Walmart by six this morning, after leaving this note:
Can't Sleep.
Went Out.
Am Crazy.
Dog Pooped.
Love U.
Back by 8.

I was fully prepared to be entertained by the crazed masses once I got there. I pictured a Bosch-esque scene; the angst of the penitant, the writhing of the unwashed souls, the rending of flesh and so forth, except with Bratz dolls and blow-up lawn reindeer. There was unfortunately much less carnage than anticipated. Only a few suburban wildabeasts arguing in over-strained polite tones over the clashing of shopping carts and the last talking Dora the Explorer. I guess I live in too rural an area to witness any real holiday agony.

Which was fine, because we still wanted pumpkin muffins, which were triumphantly obtained by 7:30 or so after I picked out some wrapping paper and coordinating ribbon and stuff. We plan on shirking any further capitalist duties on this Black Friday, staying in for the rest of the day, and eating the ceremonial post-T-Day turkey sammiches.

Sunday, November 19, 2006

More From The Duck-Billed Interloper

The ultrasound tech was enamored with my alien child. She said things like "such a cutie" and "what a heartbreaker." Watching the surreal little fingers float quietly to rest upon a round little cheek, I said "How can you tell? She looks like pod people from space," but I felt all squishy and full of strange icky love feelings.

Here is a foot, captioned for your viewing convenience. There is no good way for laypersons like myself to understand the scale on these sort of things, but it looks like a hobbit foot to me. With hobbit toes that are currently digging a good foothold into my ribs, either testing them as a kick-off point, or working in between them so that she can hang on by her feet the day we all try to pry her out of her executive suite and into the cold, cold world.

Here also is a profile. She was making sucking-lips at the time, probably plotting exactly how she plans on turning my nice, attractive ta-tas into functioning Mommy-Jugs that will never be the same again. Well the joke's on her, cause all that scheming makes her look like a platypus. So there.

Monday, November 13, 2006


My blog won't be officially two years old until the 29th, but I'll probably be too preoccupied by things like my birthday, Thanksgiving, and giving birth in the upcoming weeks to blog about trivial stuff like this, or really at all.

I was paging through the early entries here, remembering important facts about myself, like how two years ago I was working at the mall, and how one year ago, I was at the tail end of my pizza days. This shows how very very far I've come in order to be a very profesional substitute teacher who often opts out of taking assignments because she "doesn't really feel like working today." Important fact about me: despite having earned a college degree, I am still the same unmotivated commitment-phobe that I was two, five, or even ten years ago, and I probably always will be. It's good to have consistancy in our lives, no?

Also, two years ago, I opened a Gap charge card, vowing to use it only on my baby nephew and only for that impending Christmas, and to then pay the card off and close it. Yeah, well then I found out that you could also use this card at Old Navy. Still have stupid card. Still carrying some sort of balance on it. Bite me.

In addition, I discovered that my affair with knitting is also two years old, and that my pirate name was at one time Iron Prudentilla Bonney. I believe that pirates can knit if they want to. I believe that Miss I. P. Bonney is still alive and well, even though my blog is spiraling uncontrolably toward the day when it becomes just another insipid mommy-blog, and away from the insipid self-absorbed twenty-something babble of it's glory days.

So, happy Blogaversary, MoVille. Let us not become too insufferable in the near future, k?

Saturday, November 11, 2006

Heard at the OB Clinic, With Inside Voice

"Who knew there was a weight limit on birth control?"

I did. Of course, you don't look like you quite top that limit, but it's a moot point if you don't take the pills.

"You'll see when yours is two. They just will not be good. Luke, baby, no. Don't kick her. NO! Do you want a cookie? Stop it! Cookie, sweetie? Luke! Cookie? Luke! Luke! Luke! Don't ignore me, or I will come over there!"

Yeah, Luke. Don't ignore her. She might just have to give you another Snickers.

"The daddy of this one's a meth head and in jail. I hate him. I hate his bitch mom worse. That bitch just makes problems for me for no reason. She tells people I'm on drugs. Um, duh, I'm pregnant. I don't even do drugs now. I swear to God, some people shouldn't ever have kids."

Um. Duh.

"We'll do the puzzle again. Crystal called me a booger. You come to Aunt D's house and call her a booger, ok? Her is the boss of that baby, cause her is him's mommy. Her is the boss of that baby, cause her is her mommy."

Where is the boss of you, anyway? Did she leave you here? You are kind of boogery...

"I love coming here. It's so nice to be around other mommies who know what's up and actually talk to each other and help each other. It's like having sisters once a week. It's just so nice."

"I know. It is." My god, I hope my prego pants don't make my ass look that fat.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

Last Week

Mo: I don't feel good. I think I ate too much scrapple.
Carl: Me too. Half a brick each is too much. We know that now.

Mo: I don't feel good. My back hurts a lot over here when I lay down, sit up or breathe. I haven't made it out of bed all day. Blahrg.
Carl: Don't worry. It's okay if you're having an emotional day.

Tuesday Night (all night)
Mo's Fever: Hi! I'm 102.8!
Carl: OMG! Stop it! That's too hot for babies!!!
Mo's Fever: Shivering is fun!! Babies like to be warm, right? Lets sweat!
Carl: Take Tylenol! Get in the cold shower! NO PARBOILED BABIES!!!
Mo: *shiver, moan*

Wednesday Morning
Mo's Doctor: So, have you been urinating frequently or felt any pressure in your bladder?
Mo: Hi. Eight months pregnant here.
Mo's Urinalysis: You didn't see the blood in here??
Mo: All that water I've been drinking to quench the fire in my body must have diluted it.
Mo's Dr: Yeah, kidney infections happen a lot in later pregnancy. They can start contractions and early labor. Have you tried not having a kidney infection?
Mo: Um, yeah. That didn't work.
Mo's Dr: Oh. Well, take this antibiotic. It'll fix you good.

Antibiotic: *Fixes me good.*

Carl: OMG don't do that again. Damn it.
Mo: "emotional day." hmph.
Carl: You are allowed to have an emotional day! You are NOT allowed to get sick! Damn it!
Mo: I really thought it was the scrapple. Like scrapple was finally taking vengeance.
Aqualass: Hey, does it still hurt when I stick my foot here? Yeah? How 'bout here? Interesting. Antibiotics aren't really food, you know. Could you send some peanut butter down here? Or soup. Soup soup soup.

Monday, October 30, 2006

Just Eat the Sammich.

Twelve-year olds have a very special way of pointing out all the ways that you are forcing them to live in an unbearable hovel the likes of which must (must!) be considered child abuse in some states. In front of grandparents, they say things like, "Am I allowed to turn the heat on today? My room is like 40 degrees, and....well, I'm...cold. So cold."

After her dad spent all weekend losing round 2 in the battle to fit the chimney with a liner, Erin comes home from her mom's and says very innocently, "Do you know when we are getting the fireplace fixed?" After he spends half the day replacing all the pipes under the sink, you (inevitably) find her examining a glass of tap water, nose wrinkled, proclaiming with disgust, "what we really need is a hard-water filter." Damn science teacher and his fancy water unit. All tellin kids stuff.

"The carpet smells. How old is it anyway?"
"The bathtub tiles are moldy."
"This mayonnaise is expired."

Pfft. Not any more "expired" than it was in your sammich yesterday. Didn't seem to bother you then.

Saturday, October 21, 2006

Life Lessons

Back in June, when I was last substitute teaching, kids often asked me questions like, "How old are you, anyway?" and "Do you have a boyfriend?"

Now it's "Are you haveing a boy or a girl?" and "Have you picked out a name yet?" It's fun to see how tenth graders react when I blink, act confused and say, "what do you mean? I'm not having a baby!"

My favorite, though, is "Are you married?" Teenagers are not shy at all about delving into your personal life and finding out whether you are a good, upstanding Christian citizen, or a naughty, dirty sinful whore. So I'm usually not shy about replying, "Nope. Living in sin is a lot more fun."

Teaching the next generation life lessons is an important job that I take very seriously.

Sunday, October 15, 2006

Two Kicks Means "More Pickles"

The reigning sovereign Aqualass is running out of room in there.

My insides feel less like someone walking gently around and upside-down in the 2001 Space Oddysey ship, and more like a rottweiler unexpectedly zipped into a kiddie sleeping bag. A disgruntled rottweiler. Who is hungry. And demands curry.

I hope she knows that I will need my spleen and liver and lungs intact once she's done batting them around. I mean, I'm not going to be able to feed her or torture our captured enemies for her amusement if she keeps wedging her cute little #!&*ing toesies through my squiggly-spooch any time she feels like it. (Especially while I'm trying to go to sleep. She definitely feels like it then.)

Monday, October 09, 2006

Running Over The Same Old Ground

My mom had the idea planted deep in her head that we were all to go to the shore while my sister and my nephew were in town. Did it matter that it is now October and there was coastal flooding warnings in effect from Friday til Sunday morning? This is my mom, so no. Not really. And lo, we had a very nice time despite my bad dreams filled with tidal waves and being trapped on the roof of the motel. Our particular two-year old is even very pleasant, especially when he has a lot of different people to play with him. Actually, the same applies to our particular twelve-year old.

I forgot my camera, so the pictures of the dog's first romp on the beach (vigerous, joyfull, wet), the pictures of baby Eddie shoplifting for the first time (a happy Buddah figurine), and the pictures of the bunch of us wind-whipped but still having fun on the boardwalk; those pictures are all in my head.

I am melancholy because I don't want them to leave in two days. I want them to stay and live in my house (or next door would do) and have tea with me every morning. I want my sister to be here when I have my baby, so we can trade sometimes, or parade them around in rediculous matching bunny outfits.

I want to drive with them to Vermont (live free or die!) instead of driving them to the airport on Wednesday.

Tuesday, October 03, 2006

Shower Me 2

There was cheesecake. I got to take the leftover cheesecake home. I will probably have some as soon as I get up from this keyboard.

Other than the cheescake, for which every one of my senses suddenly alligned in an extreme and frightening moment of focus, it was all a blur. I know I had fun, and I think others had fun too, but the details are a little fuzzy just now. I remember driving up to my mom's house with Joy, who came down from NY with Mark (you crazy crackers, you). I also remember walking in and being greeted by almost every woman I know all at once. Then there was the hail ("shower" my ass) of onesies, binkies, blankies and teddies, carseats, monitors, a slew of other infant acoutrements, CHEESECAKE, driving, and then Carl standing in the driveway at home saying "Holy Fuck, you made out like a bandit!"

How much can I possibly say thank you to my mom and my sister and everyone? Not. Enough.

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

Pod Person What?

So, what nursery bedding really defines me as a person? Am I classic like Patchwork Pooh, a sweet and gentle echo of yesteryear that still seems warm and inviting today? Or am I fun and playful like Froggy Tales, all bright duckies, frogs and dragonflies, perfect for a baby by Toad and me?

Alas, no. While I actually would like to roll around in both of these crib sets myself, God help me, I think I'm secretly Vintage Teaberry. It all seems obvious now. Don't delicate flowers, sage green velvet, ruffles of soft sheer eyelet and sweet pink and cream stripes say "Mo" to you? No? Are you really going to suggest to me that I am not reminiscent of an English garden?

Well, I'll just have to throw rocks at your stupid heads. Right after I get my hair set and go grocery shopping in my Laura Ashley picnic dress and heels.

Tuesday, September 26, 2006

Shower Me

It broke my mom's heart, but I informed her a few weeks ago that I much prefered to drop the pretense of a surprise baby shower. Let's face it,

  • I know I'm having a baby. If I haven't caught on by now, I have bigger problems than can be fixed by spinach puffs and cheesecake.
  • I know who my friends are. I know which ones can be there.
  • I picked my sister up at the airport myself, so I know she's in town.
  • I registered for baby stuff that I wish people to "shower" me with, so I already know what sort of gifts I'm likely to receive.

If I wanted to, I could even look online to see what has and has not been checked off the registry. But I won't; it seems tacky.

Yeah, the only surprise that could come out of this would be for me to be unsuspectingly thrust before a mob of all the women I know (and their cameras) in my bacon-grease stained sweatshirt, ugly high-water maternity jeans, and bad hair. I know it hurts, Mom, but I'm fairly certain you can bear to forgo that particular pleasure, if only to allow me some rarely-requested time with a blow-dryer and some product.

The whole process of registering was a weird one for me. I felt like a spoiled kid: "I want this one in lilac, NOT grape, and I want this one in every size....actually, better make it two in every size..." Honestly, the baby-stuff store is overwhelming in itself. Endless rows of booties and bath toys; entire walls full of bottle and nipple options... I've obviously never done this before, and after being there for two hours, I realized how much I don't really know what I will want or need. If I'd stayed any longer, I would have had a melt-down in the bumpers-and-sheets aisle and the helpful staff would have had to clean up the ensuing puddle of my tears and snot.

"Why are they all pink?!?" I would cry as they carried me away. "What's a layette, anyway? I don't want a bottle warmer, I want my old jeans-size back! I want to wear sexy underwear again! I want an Oompa Loompa nanny now!!"

Friday, September 15, 2006

En-Phoned w/K-Dawg


Phone: ring ring ring
K-Dawg: Hello?
Me: (brightly) Hi!
K: ....hi?
Me: HI!
K: Oh! Hi.
Me: What's up?
K: ....Nothing.
Me: ......
K: so....
Me: ok, this is stupid...
K: what is?
Me: Um, was your birthday yesterday, or three days from now?
K: haha! How long have you known me?
Me: I'm an asshole, I know.
K: Three days from now (*audibly reveling in my assholishness*)
Me: Ok, well I knew it was one of those. I was gonna call Steph, but I'm pretty sure she wouldn't know either. (*shamelessly trying to bring others down with me*)
K: Yes. She would probably agree that it was one of those as well.
Me: I'll call you three days from now, then.
K: K.

Thursday (yesterday, three days after Monday)

Me: *forgets to call*


My blog: Happy Birfday, Kyle!

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

Helpful Advice

It's annoying enough to be stuck awake at 3:30 am for no reason. But then there's the 3:30 am gnawing hunger pangs.

"Tsk, well, now's a good time to get used to that, l'il mama."

Pft, well, I don't think it's fair. I'm supposed to be 'getting my rest now,' not 'practicing irrationally scheduled feedings now.' And don't call me "l'il mama." It's stupid. I'm not little. I'm big. Big like moose.

"You should try keeping some saltines next to the bed for those middle-of-the-night cravings."

Oh, yeah. Like I really want to put CRACKERS in my mouth at 3:30 am. Yum Yum. Salty dry crackers. Just what I was dreaming about. How did you know?

Friday, September 08, 2006

Don't Be Conned. I Was.

See this?

Cute, isn't it?
Well, this is why we can't have nice things. Nice things like plates.

Or mail.

Or Potatoes.

I remember the days when we were allowed to have potatoes.
On plates. Possibly while reading mail. Or while watching the unchewed Netflix that came in that mail. Oh, for the sweet, unsullied days of spuds and Netflix.....

Don't be blindly taken in by his contrite appearance. You think he doesn't know what he's doing? Look at him.

All getting your sympathy. See, right now, you're thinking, "Awww....look at that face. He feels so bad about what he's done. You are horrible people for not giving him a doggie biscuit right now and telling him he's a good doggie woggie wumpkins. Isn't he? Isn't he a good little wumpkins?? Yes. Yes he is."

That's how he gets you. He mopes around all sad, and then you forgive him and then WHAM!! Tissue party in the living room! YAY!! YAY!! Oh, what, you people were planning on using that entire box all by yourselves??? Gosh, I'm sorry....

Thursday, August 31, 2006

Sweaters are Gheay.

Ah....hours and hours of unadulterated internet surfage, interrupted only by the occasional snack break and the inevitable 12-year old, unsuccessfully angleing for computer time. Yeah, I'm still on, here, and No, you can't play with my computer sitting right there behind me, even though I said you could once it was set up and even though I'm right here and it has no internet for you to get in trouble on, anyway.

That computer has dirty/incriminating pictures on it from college. You're not old enough to know how cool/edgy I actually am/once was/will be again. It would shatter this image I'm trying to have as an adult around here. Buzz off.

I can afford to lose points with her today. Yesterday I took her shopping for lots of clothes her dad would never have understood the point of purchasing. You know, like, anything she would actually want to wear. It was fun. Entirely gratified the itch I have for back-to school fashion hunting that I cannot fulfill for myself because of my strange and mutated shape at the moment. I mean, I will have to look for appropriate substitute-teacher pants soon, but they will most likely resemble deranged clown gear, and not really fill any catigory of "fashion" as it is currently known to the rest of the functioning universe.

Anyway, looking online today at (geek) knitting patterns; entirely annoyed with how people name their sweaters with people names. Although they do so pretty appropriately: "Eloise" looks like something a French librarian would wear, "Carmine" is a saucy red sweater-dress, "Helen" is a granny-cartigan, etc. I finally boggled my brain with so many sweater patterns that I decided I am not knitting one any time soon, sweaters are stupid, and printed myself out some nice fingerless gloves instead. Stupid sweaters.

Sunday, August 27, 2006

Mollie-ritas, on the rocks

It was a different kind of Pennsic for me this year, as my two favorite Pennsic activities, boozing and unseemly cavorting, were off the to-do list. Although cavorting can be achieved without booze present, it would have been tough to swing this time around. Outside of my immediate circles, most folks (read: objects of my fantasy porn daydreams) saw the baby belly and either ran the other way, or got all mushy-eyed and began issuing some sort of birth story/parental advice/protective-helpful assistance. This was funny enough, but only for so long, and I needed to find myself other sources of entertainment.

Like Mollie. Mollie is Cheryl's latest and greatest Pennsic virgin. Mollie is 20 and about to leave home for college for the first time, and is one of those people who always seems to be "on." Some of my favorite Mollie-isms:

Me: My, but you are perky.
Mollie: Oh. That. Well, I was home schooled.
(as if this explains it all. Which, actually, it kind of does.)
Me: I'm allergic to perky.
Mollie: It's not my fault I'm a 36B.

She is also the type of person who projects little-girl innocence and naivete, which is then all shattered by conversations like this:

Cheryl: Well, there is love, and then there is fucking around. They don't really have to coincide.
Mollie: (to me) Do you believe that?
Me: Yeah, more or less.
Mollie: .... Wow. I really have to decide what I believe quick, before I just show up at college and go, "Put me on the pill and somebody fuck me!! fuck me!!!"

Thank you, Mollie, for being my alcohol substitute. You are sweet like peach scnapps; tart like appletinis; refreshing like Arbor Mist.

(*refrains from buttery-nipple comment*)

Thursday, August 24, 2006

Post-War Blues

Post-War blues for me involves a lot of wandering around the house aimlessly, possibly picking things up and putting them down about five inches to the left, as if that is where I always envisioned it to be; as if five inches to the left is where everything would go in my perfect plan for the universe. Like, if we were all still at Pennsic, I wouldn't need to move things five inches anywhere. It would just be there like it's supposed to be.

Post-War also brings bill paying. A good chunk of my hard-earned Pennsic cash often immediately goes toward car insurance and paying down credit cards that helped me through the dry summer months. Le sigh.

On the up side, it was very entertaining trying to explain my "vacation" to my OB nurses and doctor today, and why my belly is covered in henna. Watching their eyes glaze over as I talked about taking my 6-month el-prego self camping and partying for two weeks in August was worth the hour-long wait and unexpected bloodwork.

I rewarded myself with a half-dozen from Dunkin Donuts afterward.

Some pics from my phone and computer can be seen here. (my computer still doesn't have internet, and I don't want to download the picture sharing software to C's computer, so this is what I can show you right now.)

Thursday, August 03, 2006

I'm Going to Stop Procrastinating Any Minute.

Yes, I know I promised I'd come back on Monday and tell you all about it. And I know it is now Thursday, three days later. But c'mon. It's me. Are you really surprised? No. No you aren't.

So, as it turns out, in the monumental battle waged between the Aqualads and -gals on the vast fertile fields of my girly parts, the X chromesomes have it. It's a Prudence. Queen Prudence Valencia the Kicksome of Mount Doom.

MiniMo for short. Let us pray.

Saturday, July 29, 2006

Place Your Bets

Ok, so I'm going in for another ultrasound on Monday. This is the one that determines whether there will be tiny sundresses or itty-bitty golf shorts in a year or so.

(Actually, that was determined about five months ago, when one tadpole fought off all the other tadpoles with its microscopic tadpole light saber and threw its X or Y chromesome into the firey belly of Mount Doom.)

(And yeah, you're right. I would never put any kid of mine in golf shorts. Even if they were from Baby Gap.)

I am taking wagers now. Flip a coin. Winners get a prize. The prize may or may not contain a certain percentage of poopy diaper. Unless the critter decides to be obstinant and show us only its butt, I'll let you know on Monday.

Tuesday, July 25, 2006


6:30am: Wake up. Wish I could sleep through Man getting up for work for once.
6:50-7:35: Read Wicked; ignore the prods of my internal Krakin, who (surprise) wishes to feed.
7:40: Give in to spawn; unearth pjs from pile of clothes on floor.
7:45: Obey the spawn's wishes for peanut butter on celery.
8:05: Man leaves. Le sad.
8:07: Take dog out for a pee.
8:09: Ignore dishes. It is 12-year-old kid's turn tonight (finally).

8:30-10:45: Sew and watch TNT "Drama in the Daytime" lineup. Watch 2 too many Charmed episodes than I really need to see in my lifetime. Wonder who I am kidding; know I will watch 2 more eps tonight.
10:50: Kid drifts downstairs, bleary. The bum.
11:15: Receive call from kid's friend. Kid is going over there to swim.

11:20: Take dog out for another pee. Show slovenly self to neighbors.
12:05: Fix tuna salad for lunch. Create more dishes for kid to do. Use probably two more utensils than I need to. Feel petty. Eat lunch with petty, petty glee.

12:24: Don more respectable shirt; leave house to go get mail from old house.
12:26: Notice cat dead on driveway.
1:32: Return with mail. Have been bequeathed medical insurance (after three months of "screening"), four more medical bills, a few credit card statements, and a Victoria's Secret catalog full of clothes the likes of which I will probably never wear again.

1:40-2:10: Decide that Man will be upset by dead cat; bury cat under grape arbor. Pick flowers for cat grave, place them attractively.

2:12: Dog. Pee. You get the gist.
2:15: Scrub hands; retrieve Peanut Butter Captain Crunch from secret hiding place under stove.

2:20-3:00: Lay on couch, munching forbidden cereal, feeling baby squirm under my hand. Contemplate meaning, joys, fleetingness of life. Contemplate meaning, joys, fleetingness of Captain Crunch.

4:20: Receive news that kid will be spending night at friend's house. Devious wench.
5:10: Do dishes.

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

Reading Between the Lines

E-mail from Jaimie to me: (paraphrased) I miss you. It's stupid that I'm not there. I feel guilty and very sad.

Email from Me to Jaimie: (also paraphrased) I miss you too, but we are big girls and I still support you and your reasons for being there, even though it hurts a lot.


Ed: Stop obsessing over that email.

Jaimie: I'm not obsessing. (*obsesses*)

Ed: See, she's fine. She's not sad.

Jaimie: YOU SHUT YOUR MOUTH! She's an emotional wreck and YOU CAN'T TAKE THAT AWAY FROM ME!!!!

Sunday, July 09, 2006

Ahem. A Review.

I had a really nice date last night. It included sushi and Pirates 2. *sushi-joy-spasm* Now that I think of it, the whole evening had kind of a nautical theme. (before you say it, *advance denial of involvement in "water sports"*)

The movie has one of those endings you expect a second movie to have. Kind of gives you that "What-do-you-mean-Doc's-living-in-the-Old-West," or "Luke's-a-lefty-and-Han-is-frozen-in-carbonite-what-the-fuck" feeling. Except, you know, more pirate-y.

Totally awesome: Naomie Harris (Selena in 28 Days Later). As much as I heart Keira Knightly and wish to stalk her, I was so completely mesmerized by Ms. Harris' boobs and make-up that I completely missed half of whatever she was saying. Which was unfortunate, because her lines are kind of important to the plot, and C had to whisper it all to me over again as soon as she was off the screen. Damn her and her trance-inducing mouth!

They should just rename the movie Pirates 2: Johnny and the Freaky Hot Hyptno-Jamaican. I'm pretty sure it wouldn't hurt weekend box-office sales.

Review: Pirates 2 very good. Go see now.

Thursday, July 06, 2006


This is Duke.

Or more specifically, Duke Diggory Livingston Foley-Righter, Esq. Duke is about ten weeks old and has been with us for about two of those weeks.

Duke is a German shepherd-golden retriever mix.I told Steph about Duke, and she said, " wanted to name him Fluff-Fluff-Marshmallow-Head, didn't you?"

Yes. Yes I did.

Duke is technically Carl's dog, because Carl has wanted a dog really bad for a long time. I have misquoted him as saying, (*pout*) "You're getting a baby.....I wanna puppy!"

The thing is, Carl really isn't home during the day a lot. During the day, it's all me. Me and Fluff-Fluff-Marshmallow-Head.

I get to take him outside nine times a day, I get to clean up the poop that happens right after we come back inside, I get to climb over the baby gates and onto puppy-pee newspapers. But I also get to teach him to fetch and take pictures of him sleeping after a long walk to the garden and back. Fluff-Fluff is just a baby, so he gets tuckered out a lot.

It's a good thing he's so cute.

Tuesday, July 04, 2006

Biotch Needs Vanquishing

My sister is having ongoing trouble with her evil (not just wicked) step-mother in-law. (yes, the power of in-law-hood compounded by step-ishness) This woman insists that my baby nephew, previously mentioned on this blog as the light of my life, has a language disability, developmental issues, a clubbed foot, and whatever else she pull out of her ass.

This sack of crap has made it her mission in life to denegrate a child who could not possibly be more perfect, mostly out of inexplicable spite for my sister. I have suggested a conversation that would proceed thusly:

Evil Step Mother In Law: "I really think you need to have his feet looked at again. With his difficulties, you really need to pay attention to these things. Do you even have a pediatrician??"

Jaimie: "Hey ESMIL, are you and your husband still having sex? Are you even still capable of orgasm at your age?"

ESMIL: " #@$(##@^&!!"

Jaimie: "Yeah, maybe you should keep your hairy mouth shut about things that are none of your business, too. Actually I've noticed that mustache of yours, and did you know excess facial hair can be a sign of polycystic ovarian syndrome? Because you should really have that checked. It doesn't *look* normal."

(that last part was suggested by Bethany. Frankly, if I were in CO and had to witness such remarks from this person, I have a feeling the situation would progress much more quickly from biting quips to crazy bitches being punched in the face.)

(Hey, she's not my step-old-fart-in-law.)

Wednesday, June 28, 2006


It's raining again in PA. I took a few pictures in the day or two that it decided to stop.

Sometimes I wish it would never stop...or that the air could always be misty and fresh like just after it finally does...

The Interloper

No telling whether it's a Ninja Turtle or Ninja Turtlette yet.

Monday, June 26, 2006

Sometimes, You Need A Good Line

I am currently embroiled in helping Cheryl with The Greatest Little Faire That Isn't.

It's a bizzare situation. It's a first-year faire with a nice website, decent advertising, expensive buildings, quality merchants, etc. It seems like everything should be set for a successfull run. Except for the little detail of patrons. For three weekends now, there have been very very few paying customers. Of course "paying" is really a misnomer. This is being held in the middle of the mountains where the small population is about as broke as we are at this point, have never heard of a Renn Faire, and would probably rather use their expendable income toward Nascar-related causes, anyway. A finite number of dollars walk through our gate, and it is kind of a crap-shoot as to which five out of thirty novelty/food/wench gear vendors get those dollars. And this past weekend, it rained the whole time.

Who has fled back to knitting out of sheer, soul-killing boredom after a long post-kilt-sock hiatus? This guy.

Oh well. At least this past weekend I had some fun on Saturday night with other merchants, giggling manaically over our shared plight at the nearby campground. There is a commeraderie there, as we are munching on burgers and leftovers brought down by the nicer food people and chatting till all hours untill finally crawling in to our tents/pop-ups/vans down by the river.

Best line of the night-
Brent, the 6'8" 300 lb leather-armor guy: "The question is, if I were gay, could you stop me?"
Dan, his jewelry-making buddy: "And the answer is no, but I could chew off my own ass in order to get away."

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Um...Feel My Wrath?

I was really surprised the other day when I drove by the Pizza Hell where I worked last year, and saw that all the windows were boarded up and the place was completely abandoned. Ok, I wasn't that surprised, considering the overpriced pizza they sold and the managers who stole and the string of employees they screwed over and the corresponding high rate of turnover/low rate of customer satisfaction. In fact, I wouldn't be that surprised if I found out that someone had torched the place.

Did I ever tell you about how the administrative office where I worked immediately preceeding Pizza Hell (you know, the one that rhymes with H and R Cock) was disolved a few months after I stopped working there? Well it was. Disolved in the kind of way where the higher-ups decided to just start over and everyone lost their jobs.

That makes two disfunctional places in a row that have fallen apart shortly after I left. Now, I'm not going to say that one thing is directly related to the other, my leaving and the place crumbling in my wake, I mean. And I'm not going to say that future employers should know to keep me happy and beware of the destruction my displeasure will ultimately bring raining down upon their places of business.

I'm not going to say that all should love me and despair.

I'm just going to imply it.

Thursday, June 15, 2006

Not Just a Figment

As discussed at some point with Steph, I will occasionally backslide a few phases into denial. Before things become visually apparant, the whole thing is surreal, and it's easy to wonder if it is happening at all. Like perhaps I made up this little story out of boredom. Perhaps it's really just a big joke on everyone. Mostly me.

There should be a phase called "delusional."

I had a doctor's appointment today. The nurse practitioner, after some routine pokes and prods, decided that we should listen to the heartbeat. She did this without much warning. One minute I am sitting there with no pants, blissfully watching this little cart-and-pony show, which is all very amusing but unnecissary because I probably conjured it up in my head. Then the next minute, there is this heartbeat echoing out of my body that is not mine, proving once and for all (before witnesses) that yes, Aquaman exists, and somehow, Aquaman is in my undercarriage.

The office also made me speak with their resident counselor. Among other things, this lady stressed two items. One was that breast feeding is important. Ok, fine. Check. I'm already on board with that. The second thing was that I should get married. For the security, for the insurance, and mostly so my man doesn't run out on me. I let her know that I'm very secure, thanks; my man doesn't have any more insurance than me; and that I am more likely to run out on myself if anyone runs out at all, but I appreciate the concern. I should have told her that my partner, Candace, and I have a very loving, stable relationship and will definitely get married as soon as we can get ourselves on one of those Rosie O'Donnell cruises.

There should also be a phase called "Fleeing From Well-Wishers and Advice-Givers to Live With Bohemian Hedonists in Thailand."

Friday, June 09, 2006

Things That Don't Suck About Being K.U.

You have a good excuse to eat more healthy foods like you always wanted to.

No one blames you when you eat ice cream instead.

Things That Suck About Being Knocked Up


A brand-new dimension is added to wishing your sister lived next door instead of 2000 miles away.

Monday, June 05, 2006

5 Stages of Grief

(Or of receiving catastrophic news)

"oh, by the end of March, first week of April, at the latest. No worries."
"When was your last one?"
"February 1st or 2nd. Why?"

"You're waiting for the other shoe to drop?!?! I've got a shoe for you right here! And I'm about to drop it in your ass!!"

"If I'm asleep all the time, it will probably change it's mind and go away, right? Ok, how bout this. You can be ecstatic, as long as I get to take more naps. And eat more Dibs."

"My life is over, and I'm a bad person."
"No, it isn't and no you're not. You just feel like this because you are wallowing in the depths of despair for the time being."
"I'm not really in the depths of despair."
"I know. You're just splashing around in the shallow end. Bobbing for apples of despair."

"I switched my Netflix mailing address to your PO Box."
"Wow. That's like, a big sign of commitment."
"Yeah. Cause letting your frogspawn gnaw on my liver for nine months is nothing. It's really all about the Netflix."

Monday, May 15, 2006

As Found In Substitute Manual:

The following aversive techniques of handling behavior are considered inappropriate and may not be used by agencies in educational programs (PA Code 342.36e):

1. Corporal punishment
2. Punishment for a manifestation of a student's disability
3. Locked rooms, boxes, or other locked structures from which the students cannot readily exit
4. Noxious substances
5. Deprivation of basic human rights, ie. withholding meals, water, or fresh air
6. Serial suspensions (like from the ceiling?)
7. Treatment of a demeaning nature
8. Electric shock
9. Methods implemented by untrained personel

So I guess I'm not allowed to cattle-prod kids through the bars of a dog kennel while spraying them with weed killer, calling them cross-eyed gingers and insulting their shoes... and I'm especially not allowed to let untrained personel do it.

This totally ruins my plans for Thursday.

Friday, May 12, 2006


Until I get better pictures, taken with my actual camera and not the cell phone, you can see my new hair here. It's not exactly short, but its a lot shorter than I've had it in a long, long time. :-)

Tuesday, May 02, 2006

I, Bean.

There I was, trotting up and down the stairs with baskets of dirty laundry and clean laundry, vacuuming, doing random household stuff. I was passing by the dining room table for the 194th time that day, minding my own business, when I decided that I just couldn't take the insolent taunting of this saucy bastard one more second:

This device is coin-operated, so I popped the first coin I found (a quarter) into the little slot and twisted the knob. For three crappy jelly beans. Was I being mocked? I pumped a whole quarter in there!! I needed a better solution.

AHA!! I'll screw open the top! Sure, these jelly beans are from sometime before last Easter. And sure, they don't really belong to me. I say, if that 12 year old doesn't properly appreciate the quality of perfectly good 18-month old Jelly Bellies, they are so up for grabs.

Success! Now to tip it over and retrieve the delicious goodness...

Ohnos! The bottom of this thing comes off too! Change and beans everywhere! I'm so busted! (The cats think I am awesome and have done this just for them, btw.)

It's ok. I'll do the time. It was totally worth it.

Monday, April 17, 2006

Thursday, April 13, 2006


Back from Floriday, here are some pictures! (I'll put up the rest tomorrow.)

Sunday, March 05, 2006

Chuck Norris for School Board...and maybe President

So I'm perusing the Oriental Trading Company online for bulk lots of novelty items like miniature paratroopers and squishy glo-in-the-dark yoyo balls (items usefull only for stuffing pinatas and bribing middle schoolers to do math), when I come across this:

"OH my GOD. Its a 'Leap for the Lord' Potato Sack," I say.

Without looking up from her computer, Bethany says, "Sounds like what happens just before Chuck Norris tea-bags you."


"You know, like when he says 'It's almost time,' and you say 'time for what,' and then Chuck Norris round-house kicks you in the face."

...bits of wisdom that might also be usefull for bribing middle schoolers to do math...?

Saturday, February 25, 2006



8th Grader A: I can't do Math. It hard.
8th Grader B: I can't do Science. Science blows.
8th Grader C: Oh yeah? Well, I can't do Lunch. It's hard to put things in my mouth.
8th Graders: ...................
8th Grader C: Wait. That didn't sound right.
8th Graders and Immature Substitute Teacher: BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!

8th Grader D (following some other thread of conversation): Hey, does your mom know how to do that?

Not Funny:

Following b/f through crowded kitchen at his family party, while he tries to make a path, jostling others and saying "excuse me, pardon me, coming through," and when that doesn't work, "HEY! LADY WITH A BABY HERE!!!" so that I instantly turn purple and try to point at other people not me, while everyone within range turns to stare at me and starts saying congratulatory things. Jerk.

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

Bring More Booze

On Saturday night, Carl and I went to the Celtic Music Festival at the Valley Forge Convention Center and had ourselves a Hootenanny. There was a whole lotta "hoot," via many beers...and a lil bit of "nanny," i.e. hits off the whiskey flask. Carl at one point called his friends who were on the way, but couldn't hear them over the music, so just yelled "bring more booze!" into his phone and hung up. Which they did.

Me to Steph, yesterday: I heart Searson.
Steph: Buh?
Me: They are this Celtic folk rock band with three sisters and a brother and I love them. I want to be the bassist for Searson.
Steph: I see.
Me: She is so cool. And hot. The chick with the fiddle is hot too. But I really like the bassist. She's all chillin back there, laying down smooth beats while her sister freaks out on the fiddle...

Steph: Wait, wait. Do you want to be the bassist, or do you want to do the bassist?
Me: Yes. Um...wait. Be. Be the bassist.
Steph: Ok, but do you want to be the bassist herself,
Steph: ...or do you want to just be you in the band as the bassist?
Me: shut up! I wanna be the bassist in Searson when I grow up now leavemealone!

Also, an ice-tea bottle full of booze + Celtic folk bands = Carl leaning his head on someone's shoulder, rubbing their back, and stage-whispering, "I'm drunk! Don't let me go shopping for things!"

We spent a lot of time after that stumbling around shopping. For things. Things like little frog earings and candles and a black leather sporran (man-pouch ball-sack) to match his black leather kilt. And a Searson CD, which they signed while I stood there like a slack-jawed idiot, only mumbling "I-love-you-guys-you-rock" as we were backing away, clutching the CD like a couple of giddy drunk squirrels with a nut.

Love Loaf

This is what I made for dinner on VD last week:

Yes, it is a heart-shaped meat loaf and pink mashed potatos. Gag me with a spoon, right? (Actually, Erin was totally convinced that the pink taters were going to give her VD or something. So skeeved out.)

Saturday, February 18, 2006

Whur Can I Git Me One aThem Faincy Necklaces?

Can you imagine the scene at the after-Olympics buffet, where the medal winners are standing around congratulating each other, and the bunch of dorks on the curling team comes up to join them?

The speed skaters are macking on the underaged figure-skating champions, the cross-country skiers are telling everyone again about how no hip injury was going to stand in their way, and the bob-sled team is reciting an inspirational story of triumph that sounds like a cross between Iron Will and Cool Runnings. They are all raising champaigne glasses in an honorary toast delivered by Michelle Kwan, when from the back of the room, the curling team begins clinking beer bottles together and chanting "CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!" while their captain pours his seventh Miller Light down his throat.

The male figure skater, lost in a glory-induced reverie recalling a life of sacrifice and his ailing mother back in the Ukraine, suddenly bites his tongue when Bob, the guy from Buffalo (who got into the Olympics four months after watching a curling match on the Discovery channel), pounds him on the back, chuckling, "Hey! You got one of them gold medals too! Ain't that a kick in the haid?"

I imagine they might get along with the snow boarders. Or at least throw a kegger with the Canadian ice hockey team. "C'mon Bob! We're gonna go run through Kwan's speech wearing nothin but our medals, eh?"

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

The Art of Being Broke

Being po' can be seen as a great opportunity to explore one's creativity.

Take, for example, my afternoon spent turning six dollars of fabric into new curtains for the dining room and attractively aranging random objects in the window sills. Ok, it's not exactly the cutting edge of art, but if I didn't place that plant on the little chair with the watering can at a jaunty angle next to it, no one would have. That's all I'm saying.

I've also been expressing myself creatively with my finances. When one is leaping that treacherous gorge between running out of money and one's next paycheck, bill-paying can get a little colorful. One begins paying phone bills and buying gas with credit cards, and then opening new credit cards (with the justification of a %0 interductory APR), and then using that new credit card to pay off the existing ones.

Of course, some debts, like student loans and car insurance, can not be easily paid with credit cards. The agencies holding those debts prefer (for some reason) to be paid with a check. With real money. It's okay though. Credit companies are thoughtful enough to send these devilish little things called convenience checks. It's like a cash advance, writing checks that will be credited to your card at a rediculously higher intrest rate. Isn't that convenient?? I seem to think so.

I am also getting pretty good at making creative little bargains with myself. Like, "OK, stupid. You open this new credit card, transfer all the balances from the higher-interest cards, and then close those accounts so you don't run them up again (but not until after we charge a new suit from Victoria's Secret to my old credit card behind our own back, deal? deal.)"

"I will want to go to work a lot if I have new work clothes," I try to explain to myself later. Right. We've heard that one before.

Monday, February 13, 2006


So, of course, I get me a job going 'round filling in for AWOL teachers in schools I've never been to, and the first thing that happens is two feet of snow and a two hour late opening. If I had no job, this

would not have happened. That's right, it's all about me.

The interview on Thursday was as I expected: less of an actual interview, more of a hey-I've-got-a-pulse-and-a-degree-gimme-a-paycheck session. They even put my shit-eating grin on an ID badge that same day. I said I could start on Monday (i.e. today), so of course they called me around eight that night asking if I wanted to work Friday. And then again on Friday morning at 6am.

What, baby? What's that smell? Oh. That's the smell of sixth graders with nervous tics and sugar highs. It smells like cafeteria tuna caserole and Britney Spears' Curious. It also smells like cash.

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

Bums vs. Hobos

I recieved a yarn gift certificate for Christmas, with which I purchased two skeins of this delicious wool/silk blend, or what I call "teh green goodness":

I haven't really knitted anything for myself in a long while, and after careful consideration, decided on fingerless gloves. Behold, the newest addition to my "Bum-beautiful" collection!

After knitting the right one, I decided that I was going to make the fingers longer. Not because I think the shorter ones make my knuckles look fat and ugly like porky little gnomes wearing turtlenecks, but because I realized my fingers were still a little too chilly. So for purely practical reasons, I made the fingers on the second glove longer.

(Did you notice the rustic setting? Just for you, internets, just for you.) Jaimie said that this is more of a "hobo" glove than a "bum" glove. You see, hobos are more motivated and mobile than bums. Bums are much lazier than hobos, and are usually snoozing the nights away in some fancy shelter, whereas hobos are always on the move, picking up cans and seeking out a better, warmer cardboard box. Hobos need their hands to be a lot warmer, because they are out later, pushing around their hobo shopping carts, which is very cold on the hands. They only need the very tips of their fingers for the most dexterous hobo tasks, like rolling new ciggarettes out of all the butts they collected during the day, or picking up winnings from a game of dice with their hobo friends before the fuzz breaks up the game.

Hobos also have a very keen fashion sense. They realize that the longer fingers make their hands look more elegant and less porky. And nothing ruins a hobo's day like realizing they have porky fingers.

Friday, February 03, 2006

The Terrible Foot-Eating Monster

and, also, my sister's new hair color. It looks refreshingly like her actual hair color, which is a lot like my hair color, which looks dang sexy on her, when she's not devouring feet that is.