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.

Today

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.

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!!!!

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.

Fluff-Fluff-Marshmallow-Head

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, "Awww...you 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.

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.)