Jan
5
Black fly, Chardonnay
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I used to think I knew what ironic meant until Alanis did that song and everyone with an English degree started snarking about how the lyrics totally mutilated the meaning of the word, and I was all, wait, I thought a death row pardon two minutes too late was ironic? Well, fuck me.
So it’s either irony or some more appropriate, smart-sounding word that the day after a bunch of (colorful description deleted for the sake of trying to follow the If You Can’t Say Something Nice Rule) readers over at ParentDish lambasted me for being an abusive dog owner, Dog all of a sudden has this big cut on one of her toes—probably from the razor-sharp shards of glass we force her to lie in—and we’ve been doting on her to the point of waiting on her paw and foot (although I drew the line at letting her on the bed, my sleep is spotty enough these days without a big hairy beast hogging the covers, and to add Dog to the mix would really just be too much) (har har HAR!).
After I (foolishly) went and wrote an article about how I sometimes tell her to stop licking herself for the love of god then sat back dumbfounded while people reacted as though I had confessed to spending my spare time ramming toothpicks into her eye sockets and forcing her to drink bleach, my penance is to listen to Dog, wait for it, LICKING her hurt paw constantly, and of course I can’t say a damn thing about it, because then I really would be an asshole. Slup . . . slup . . . slup . . . ah, the repetitive, saliva-coated sound of IRONY! I think! Depending on what that word means!
By the way, let me just take a moment to thank you guys for being such a consistently supportive, awesome presence out there on the other side of this blog. I am more grateful than ever for the privilege of your company, now that I’m writing elsewhere in an environment that seems to attract a lot of uhhhhh negative attention. Thanks for not bringing the crazy, and thanks also for encouraging me to get my goddamned hair done already:
I got it hacked and colored today, and I feel like a new woman! I mean, sure: still ridiculously pregnant and all, but hey, at least my hair is less craptacular. GOOD IDEA YOU GUYS HIGH FIVE.
More pictures!
Hee. Cabinet Cat is watching you masturbate.
The hilariousness of a small child post-buzzcut, wearing a too-big shirt, and sporting his NEW SHOES which he is very, very proud of. (Don’t tell him they’re from Old Navy and probably made in China from various toxic substances.)
In addition to learning to do somersaults recently the boy has mastered the art of jumping with both feet, like a KANGAWOO MOMMY, NOOK!
Oh and also he can do ninja karate moves. JB will warn you: men, cover your nuts.
Jan
3
Same old, same old
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My hair is in dire need of some highlights and I’ll tell you the truth, the only reason I’m waiting to get them done is because I’m afraid of someone giving me shit in the salon. You know: “Do you really think it’s safe to expose your baby to the chemicals?” I actually do think it’s safe, or at least as safe as anything in this chemical-soaked world is, but I’m too much of a pussy to risk the potential interaction. Because then I’d have to be all, yeah I do, want to make something of it, and they’d be all, I have a degree in Crap That Can Theoretically Harm Babies and so there, and I’d be like, shut up I’m hormonal and weird and I will sit on you and crush you to death, and then we’d have to have a ninja fight with hot irons and bottles of Bumble & bumble products, and it would just be a pain in the ass.
I feel kind of fugly, though, with my half-brown, half-whatever hair. Contributing to the fug feeling is my newly acquired Pregnancy Face, where the jawline has slowly disappeared into a sea of puffiness and my eyes always look half-asleep. I’ve been rudely enjoying some recent photos of Christina Aguilera because even that tiny little hoochie now has Pregnancy Face. ALL MUST SUCCUMB.
Most of my clothes have stopped fitting for one reason or another. The cute tops are now too short, the pants all get pushed southward by the midsection, and the combination of these problems results in a large swath of naked lower belly. The fitted shirts are stretched to the point of explosion, and anything clingy bugs me now anyway. I’m itchy, I’m hot, my belly is constantly erupting in a flurry of disturbing movement: I need muumuus.
The good news is that Smalltopus seems to have dropped down a bit or at least found a new position that doesn’t involve crushing my lungs, because in the last couple days I feel marginally more capable of walking across the room without dropping to the floor and gasping, which is nice.
God, is there anything more boring than listening to a pregnant person talk about being, like omigod, so totally pregnant? Jesus. The sad part is that while I’m currently tuned to the All Gestation, All the Time channel, it’s only going to get worse: the All Baby channel is even more insipid. Soon I’ll be blathering about how eye-searingly beautiful my new baby is, even if he looks like a miniscule Andy Rooney.
:::
While I’m still mainly handling the administrative Macworld preparations at my office this year, I’m not actually going to the show. I don’t know when the cutoff time is for air travel, but I’d hate like hell to go into early labor while standing in a booth hawking software. I mean, I suppose there could be worse places to give birth, like a Porta-Potty, but the .000001% chance of it happening at Macworld is too much for me. Although it’s fun to imagine the looks of horror on some of the geekier attendees’ faces: ALERT ALERT FEMALE PRODUCING BIOLOGICAL SPECIMEN FROM LOWER BODY ALERT.
So I’m staying home and happily skipping out on booth duties—but sadly missing out on a week’s worth of room service—and instead, JB is going out of town during that timeframe. To CES. Which just so happens to be in Las Vegas.
The exhausted, blimp-sized pregnant lady gets to stay home with the kid in the nonstop Seattle rain, while the unfettered husband jets off to VEGAS for a few days of technology circle-jerking, sunshine, and various forms of adult entertainment.
Man, is that bullshit or what? What should I get in compensation, do you think? Spa day? Lapdance from Jake Gyllenhaal? Chest of gold doubloons?
:::
Lastly, for no particular reason, a picture of my child being chased by a chicken:
(Run, Forrest, RUN!)
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