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This is the most incredible rendition of "Bohemian Rhapsody" you will ever hear in your entire life.


No new photo to post today, so instead: a marmoset.

Friday, June 17, 2005

I'm about to confess something that's very out of character for me: I have been dabbling in scrapbooking. And by "dabbling", I mean "spending a stupid amount of money at craft stores and not doing a damn thing with the materials".

I know, I know. Scrapbooking. You think of women with way too much time on their hands, clad in holiday-themed sweatshirts matted with cat hair, right? I had a similar prejudice, but now that I've thumbed through a bunch of magazines and books containing examples of pages people have made, my opinion has changed - now I picture all these wildly talented graphic designers and media artists out there channeling their creativity into clever little layouts featuring their Yorkies and toddlers instead of, I don't know, walking around Manhattan wearing tiny rectangular black-framed glasses and discussing their latest Clio award.

It's intimidating, is what it is. Here I had this whim to make a small memory book focused on pregnancy with some belly photos, an ultrasound scan or two, and maybe a nice image of the actual peed-on stick (currently residing in my makeup drawer; yes, right in there next to the fossilized Great Lash mascara and "Kitten Goes to Paris" glitter powder) for prosperity's sake, but now that I'm armed with special papers and glue and stickers and a wickedly sharp pair of scissors...well, I'm stymied. I mean, I've seen all these awesome, professional-looking pages that utilize the Golden Ratio and shit, with accompanying testimonials like "I was inspired by the feather patterns on an evening grosbeak I saw at the feeder, so I started with an ecru background, then added the saffron typography while focusing on white space. The sage gradient and crimson edging play off the colors in Brianna's onsesie."

I fear a scrapbooking slippery slope, where I find myself buying specially-shaped hole punchers or Labrador themed rubber stamps or, god help me, a craft organizer (WHAT IS IT WITH MY LUST FOR THAT THING). Once you go that far, it's just a matter of time until you start using "scrap" as a verb, as in "I like the way that picture turned out, I think I'll scrap it", and - I'm sure these things are connected somehow - typing "DH" in babycenter.com web forums.

Obviously, I'm taking the whole thing too seriously and I should just slap the damn photos in the album and call it "The Time of Tumefaction: One Woman's Expansion" or something.


JB is out of town for the next couple of days spending time with his dad. Their initial plans had included a Manly Outdoor Camping Trip, but since the weather is predicted to be somewhere between mildly and severely craptacular, they amended it to a Manly Indoor Cabin Stay. I was relieved I'd decided to skip this particular visit after I saw the weekend's accoutrements; JB left this morning toting fishing gear, firearms, a particularly rugged pair of Carhartt pants, and his grungy trucker hat that has a rooster on it and reads "Oregon is Big Cock Country".

While JB and his dad are beating their chests and skinning felled moose or whatever, my own plans include developing innovative ways to shift my giant belly out of the way long enough to paint my toenails a bright and festive blue; queuing up the Princess Bride with, possibly, a large vat of Trader Joe's peanut butter pretzels by my side; and sadly, dealing with the pile of maternity shirts that need ironing because they aren't wrinkle resistant, DAMN THEM TO HELL, and every outfit is now sporting a collection of attractive creases across the midsection, because DUH, that's what happens when you sit down for two seconds when you're shaped like a reverse hourglass.

Also, there may be "scrapping". Wish me luck.

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