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Cheney's got a gun, courtesy of the Daily Show.


Seattle in the early morning light, taken by JB before diving off Alki last Sunday.




Thursday, February 16, 2006

After JB woke up yesterday declaring that he'd been "p'isoned" I knew it was only a matter of time until I too succumbed to our son's germfest. Sure enough, I crawled from bed this morning with one nostril plugged completely shut and the other tootling a strange, high-pitched whistle, my throat begging for mercy and my head aching. Apparently, Riley is a WoMD.

"Could you," I gasped weakly, clutching my bedclothes to my shivering frame, "feed the boy this morning?" Riley's morning bleats were intensifying in volume, and I wanted nothing more than to get back under the covers.

"Sure," said JB, having used up all my sympathy points with his own whining manfully recovered from the worst of his cold. "Let me just take a quick shower first."

Some interminable amount of time later, after every drop of hot water had been squeezed from the tank, JB emerged from the bedroom fresh as a daisy and buttoning the top of his shirt. "Oh," he said with total surprise and innocence, "did he start crying?"

I did some brief calculations on trajectory and volume, allowing for inconsistencies in aim, but sadly concluded that a thrown bottle of formula probably cannot kill a man instantly.

So JB took Riley to daycare and I called in sick to work then went back to bed, where I fell into a blissful, if slightly fractured ("huh? where's the baby? oh yeah..zzzzz...huh? where's the - oh yeah. zzzzzz...") sleep until 1 PM. I woke only after a second answering machine message was echoing through the quiet house, and the sunlight streaming in from the windows had reached a particularly guilt-triggering angle.

Man, I haven't sleep in like that in forever. Since way before Riley was born, even, what with the crazy pregnancy Jimmy Leg and walnut-sized bladder and all. It felt so outstandingly awesome I think it was actually worth getting sick for.

(I'm sure I will regret saying that. Probably about the time I start seriously contemplating using the baby snot-sucker on my own nose.)


A few months ago I was in the car with JB, peering critically at myself in the passenger vanity mirror - as I am wont to do - when I saw it: wiry, blindingly white, springing up from the crown of my head in an unruly manner.

"My god," I breathed. "A grey hair." I plucked it, and held it before me. JB opined that it was most likely a result from "all the chemical crap" I do to my hair (a partial highlighting job every 3 months or so), but this is the same man that 1) firmly believes that shaving causes hair to grow back in a thick, Yeti-like pelt, and 2) uses Pert to wash his face so I tend to ignore his theories on personal grooming.

I've found more since then, and each time I yank out the offender. I do not quite drop to my knees and bray "TURN YE BACK O CLOCK" but, you know, it's a little sobering - in some way that the tiny lines on my face and certain less-than-bouncy other sections of my anatomy are not. Stupid hair cells, what the fuck? No one's trundling off to the Alzheimer's ward quite yet around here, let us not just completely start shitting out on the pigmentation job.

Anyway, I will turn 32 - youthful yet, full of piss and (balsamic) vinegar! - this weekend, and as a birthday present to my own damn self I do believe I will schedule a chemical crap appointment, and this time I will ask for extra blonde.

Also, JB has taken into account my request for a quiet night at home on the day in question, and has promised to both make me dinner and clean up the aftermath.

"Listen, I don't know quite how to say this, but I really don't want any Hamburger Helper," I told him, as I am both ungrateful and rude. Before he could reply, I interrupted: "No chili dogs either."

"Whatever you can think of," he said. "Even if it requires measuring spoons?" I said. "And sautéing?" "If you tell me what sautéing means, then yes," he replied.

Awesome. I now have what amounts to both dinner AND a show to look forward to. I'll try to pick something that isn't too hard, though, because at my age I'm not sure how much excitement I can take.


Thrilling videos I took last night:

Dog Is Offered a Biscuit And Accepts.

The Pets Are Disloyal (Since They Ignore Me In Favor Of Waiting For JB)

The Boy and Those Exersaucer Sounds I Told You About.

The Boy Steadfastly Pounds His "Lamaze Infant Development System", Briefly Acknowledges Parent


What is my problem with American Idol? I am still obsessively watching this show even though the part with the terrible untalented tryouts is over, so I can no longer use the excuse that I just enjoy laughing at people making fools of themselves on national television.

JB is a fan of the blonde farmgirl, although I don't think it's necessarily because of her singing talent. Me, I'm totally rooting for the bluesy guy because he's so cool, AND he's got grey hair.


Zee Squirrelly!

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