Jul
13
July 13, 2007
(Ooh! Happy Friday the 13th!)
Workplace decided to buy every interested employee an iPhone, and on the day the phone became available everyone went down to the Apple store and waited in the long-ass line and ate pizza and played cards and reportedly had quite a fantastic time. Judging by the flurry of emails Sent From My iPhone that swirled around during the weekend that followed—ostensibly giving each other tips on connecting to home WiFi networks and configuring this and that, but they could all be boiled down to “I CAN HAS IPHONE zOMG!”—people were more than pleased with their music-playing, movie-displaying, visual-voicemail email SMS cameraphone hunks of burning burning love.
(Why did Workplace invest in all these shiny new toys? Occam’s Razor explains this generosity far better than the murky ‘business reasons’ cited: it’s a new gizmowhatsit from Apple, and it’s cool.)
I missed all the excitement, because we were off on vacation. Now that I’ve seen firsthand some of the sexy, sexy things the iPhone does (pinch zoom, slot-machine-like rolling calendar dates, rimjobs, etc), I’m of course DYING to get my own (suckily, I now have a 2-4 week wait), and I feel like a total DINOSAUR at Workplace where everyone’s ringtone is the iPhone chime noise and people are texting away and doing that side-turn thing to display photos and my own phone can only, like, place phone calls (how 2005!).
It’s true that I need an iPhone the way I need a very expensive pony, which is to say not at all, but who am I to deny Workplace’s well-meaning but inexplicable urge to outfit its employees with Apple’s latest gear? Also, what does it say about me that of all the iPhone’s whistles and bells, the feature I think I am most pants-peeingly excited about is the ability to read blog comments and emails—remotely? You know, as if I ever go anywhere.
In other news, after a sweltering 95+ degree day on Wednesday I woke up to thunderstorms this morning, and at the moment the skies are practically pitch black and making threatening, I-ate-too-much-pizza rumbling noises, and it just started pouring a torrential build-the-ark downpour, and what the HELL, Seattle? PICK A LANE.
We haven’t played the weekend game in a while, have we? Let’s do it: what are you doing this weekend? Me, I need to pack up my kitchen because in theory the walls are getting torn down very soon, we’re thinking of taking Riley to the Cougar Mountain Zoo (because dude: LEMURS), and I imagine there will be as always multiple trips to Home Depot, Ace Hardware, and Half Price Books (behold my rockstar lifestyle).
Your turn!
Jul
12
July 12, 2007
In the last few weeks Riley seems to have given up his morning nap for good, and he’s also going to bed about an hour later at night. An hour doesn’t sound like that big of a deal, does it? And yet every night around 6:45 I find myself collapsed on the couch watching our son gambol happily around the living room making motorboat noises and babbling nonstop in a mixture of recognizable words and Toddlerese and thinking, would a carefully aimed air dart of Benadryl really be so bad?
I wish I could siphon off a tiny portion of his boundless energy, because I’m so yawny all the time lately (yet another early pregnancy joy, along with Normal-Sized Belly in the Morning, Carrying Triplets By Late Evening Syndrome), I’m so freaking tired that just observing a kid tearing ass back and forth like he’s on speedballs makes my eyes water for a nap.
The golden rule for a second pregnancy often seems to be “suck it up”, because there’s not really a lot of free time in which to nap or to contemplate what sounds better for lunch: a healthy salad, or an entire tin of New York Mints (guess which!). Life motors on, and there is a small child who is currently screaming at you because his Dobby Dobby (a plastic drumstick he likes to point overhead while shouting his version of “Abracadabra” . . . oh, nevermind) has rolled under the couch. Get off your ass, Preggo, there are diapers to be changed, snacks to be prepared, and Dobby Dobbys to be rescued.
Riley just isn’t supportive of my desire to lie around eating ice cream and flipping through magazines, sadly. The other day I dragged a giant blanket into the backyard so I could flop there in comfort while Riley played nearby; it seemed like a good idea in theory but backfired in that toddlers are just like nosy cats, they’re insanely curious about anything new or out of the ordinary. I might as well have hung a sign on my shirt that read “PLEASE FEEL FREE TO CRAWL AND/OR BOUNCE ALL OVER BOTH MY PRONE BODY AND THIS BLANKET THANK YOU MGMT”. It was about as relaxing as Jello wrestling, not only that, but having my head at ground level also gave me the uncanny ability to locate and identify by smell every single dog turd in the yard (“Hmm, that one’s about a week old . . . that’s a fresh one . . . that one’s dried out but was re-activated by the sprinkler last night . . .”).
JB does more than his share of kid-wrangling but there are times when his support skills fall a bit flat. Take last night, for instance, when I mentioned how glad I would be to get past the nausea stage, and he called me a whiner. So of course I ripped off his head and devoured it. Let my husband’s headless body be a warning to you all, boys: never call a pregnant woman a whiner, because she’s hormonal, prone to emotional flash fires, and CONSTANTLY HUNGRY.
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