Don’t forget dirty olive, who recognizes that sometimes my ass is my redeeming feature. Or Flippy, the Ninja Poodles or Bitter Mom, who is totally not a tool; or the suburban misfit, neither.
Oh my God, there are so many more.
Internet, seriously. I love you. I … think I want to go all the way with you. You are special to me.
also, Mama C-Ta. Also, knotty yarn. Also, mary ann.
And this sarcastic girl and this one.
… are where you should be instead of here. Shoo.
God. Ugh. I don’t deserve to have a blog. I don’t deserve to waste precious internet space, even if it is all cyber and invisible and infinite, almost.
Lachckadj;lfkj. I’m going to start making noises that sound like the titles of things in that fucking Ikea catalog that’s ruining my life. GACK. UUBST. TREDNOK.
It’s a GACK TREDNOK kind of feeling, today. I’m not funny. I’m not witty or smart or philosophical. I can’t write FOR SHIT. I have the most stereotypical, mundane life ever invented and I never do or say or think or even read anything interesting. My problems are stupid and my successes are stupid and my taste in music is stupid and my lack of TIVO and adequate mind-numbing television programs is stupid and there is not enough chocolate in the world to cure the stupid.
In fact, even the fact that I wrote “the stupid” is stupid and further proof that I am some sort of sorry excuse for a blogger. Or a person.
Somebody lock this blog up and t’row away the key because I’m sick of myself and everything I’ve ever spewed on here.
And put the credit cards on ice, because the mall is still open for another hour and a half and I’m in a severe state of damage. I’ll show you, world; I’ll rack up massive amounts of consumer debt and piss off my husband and put myself right back where I was five years ago, which was, to wit: On my back in the lobby of Visa Headquarters, offering myself up as a sacrifice if only they would erase all those horrible horrible charges I racked up drinking myself retarded at the Brathaus.
I’m not really a “shopper” any more, I just get self-destructive.
Ugh.
Also, I hate everything.
But not you guys. I love you guys. I’m sorry I drank myself retarded again.
So I think I’ve clearly demonstrated why you should not be reading any tripe which I post here.
Instead, you should be reading these people, who are so much awesomer and worthy of your lunch hour. Sweetney, because she’s so intelligent she makes my head hurt, and also teaches me the way of the LOST. Debbie, who does the same, and who is solely responsible for the gorgeous attire you see Owen dressed in. Miss Domestic, because not only does she kick ass, but she’s pretty and generous, too. And Dani, who sends me AP stories about dinosaurs. Patricia, whose blog has a skin featuring that freak miracle of science known as Elmo. Nicole, whose daughter Matilda I just want to gobble up in great bites and who is also a much more entertaining writer than I could even think about dreaming of being. Jen, without whose counselorship I would be dead in a ditch. Jeffro and Tasha, who are living the life I thought I would end up living, only I don’t, and anyway they do it better. The Snay, who hammers things with flashlights, just like I used to do. Michaela, who can talk about sex shops and herbs without any hesitation. I wish I could do that.
There are a billion more but it’s past my bedtime.
TRODNAK. Ugh.
P.S. You know me. This will all blow over by the time I wake up tomorrow. Even Keel Eastman, that’s what they call me. So don’t worry, just let me vent it out and sleep it off and all will be sunshine in the morning.
Well, not really, because they’re calling for showers, but at least it’ll be 70 degrees, and that should be enough.
Moving on, to the wide wide world of What’s Going On With My Offspring.
He’s napping right now, because he’s perfect. But when he’s awake he likes to take things out of boxes and shake his head “no” and stand up and cruise around the furniture. He’s so smart and strong. I think we’re almost out of the baby food stage, since you can’t pick it up with your fingers and that’s what he likes to do. He also likes to read books and play with his monkey doll [Mister Monkey, not to be confused with Mister Bungo, the other monkey doll]. He crawls on his hands and knees a lot more but still not all the time. He’s getting just an eetsy bit more hair on his head. Eyes are still ice-blue like his dad’s, cheeks still scrumptious and fat.
And he likes Elmo. Not that I would stick him in front of Sesame Street every morning at 9 a.m. so I can take a shower; no. I would never do that.
But you should see his face light up. Elmo is a freak miracle of 20th century invention, and I ain’t about to argue with science.
Obsessed with the house lately, in some kind of delayed-nesting fit of housewifery. I want to:
Of course, it would be ridiculous to do these things when we have slightly more pressing matters demanding our time and money, such as day care and the mortgage and taking out the trash. But just once, in my young life, I would like to live in a place that did not still utilize milk crates and castoffs as primary furniture items. I admit, I’m a step up from covering a cardboard box with a blanket and calling it a table [hello, senior year and every internship apartment I’ve ever had] … but the designer who sleeps deep inside my brain is screaming for something nice to look at.
I know that if I say “Ikea” one more time Iain will punch a hole in the wall; I also know that this month we’ve finally paid his truck off, giving us a bit of breathing room in ye olde budgetary budget thing, room for doctor bills and Christmas gifts and working on paying my car off. And I also also know that 26-year-olds are supposed to live like this, that one cannot attain the lifestyle of my parents at this age without going into some major hock. I just have to be patient, and make like those Victorian-era heroines whose homes were shabby and unfashionable but at least they were clean and well-scrubbed. Guess I’ll have to work on the clean and well-scrubbed part for the duration.
Thank you again, people, for your well-wishing.
We’re getting back into the groove, catching up on sleep, laundry and dishes. I ventured out to a place other than the hospital both yesterday [Ikea!] and today [Holy Frijoles!]. This morning was the hanging for the Baltimore Flickr Show which will be up from today until Dec. 31 at Holy Frijoles, Hampden. Many prints for sale, including these beauties:
It’s my very first photography exhibit — hell, my first art exhibit of any kind — and I’m way psyched. I was almost too nervous to participate, but I’m glad I did. Here’s Owen amusing himself during the hanging:
I have fifty million housey-type things to accomplish tonight, but I’ll do it gladly, because I’m just so happy Iain is home. Tra-la! Off to launder!
He’s home! He’s not better, he’s 10 pounds lighter, and their best guess is “something viral,” but he’s home!
He went in on Tuesday morning to the E.R., only to be told — after four hours — that it would be at least four more before they could see him. Wednesday’s trip to the E.R. yielded a quicker response, but he was in such bad shape they admitted him to the hospital late that night. They did test after test, cat scans, x-rays, cultures — nothing could explain his fever of almost 104 degrees plus the myriad other symptoms that doubled him over and left him delirious and in pain.
Of course, anxiety-ridden gal that I am, I figured it must be a kidney infection, maybe a little SARS, possibly Avian Flu. Whatever it is, it baffled medical science.
It’s heartbreaking, too. Iain is a man who never so much needs a tablet of aspirin, so to be trapped in the hospital with no answers was frightening to a severe degree, for both of us.
But he’s home now, recuperating on the sofa. Our family unit is one again intact. My heart has ceased racing. The crisis has passed.
Thank you for the positive energy, gang; dare I say it worked?
Thank you, everyone, who called or e-mailed or commented or sent ESPN vibes of health.
He’s still sick. He’s still at the hospital [rounding into day three, here]. And they still don’t know what’s wrong.
I just want him to feel better, and to come home.
Thanks again for your kind thoughts. I hope to respond personally when things get a little sparklier around here. Which — Please, Baby Jesus — will be soon. Like tomorrow.
Supa Friends, my husband is in the hospital.
I .. am at a loss. I ain’t the praying type, but warm thoughts appreciated.
Supa Friends, my husband is in the hospital.
I .. am at a loss. I ain’t the praying type, but warm thoughts appreciated.