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.