Jan
30
January 30, 2007
Tell me, how can something that’s so spectacularly cute cause so much pain?
High school boyfriends, rabies-infested Angora bunnies, and Steve Madden heels: CRIMES AGAINST NATURE.
They look so benign, too. Low heels, gently rounded toe, there’s nothing there that should make my feet feel like I’ve drunk the Sea Witch’s potion, and yet my every step in these devil-shoes is one of limping agony. I foolishly wore these this morning and even though I traded them in for flats before I left the house, I’m still gimpy.
I am Barbaro. Call the glue farm.
I wore those fucking shoes for one night in San Francisco three weeks ago, and I still have scabs on my toes. My apologies for using the word “scab” in a non-union-focused blog entry because, well, ew, but that’s what the hell they are: SCABS. From an ill-advised three-block journey which left my feet so destroyed I actually walked through the hotel barefoot, despite a vivid mental image of the unseen hotel carpet detritus I was moseying over (Eluviation Layer: Various Bits of Street Filth; Regolith Layer: Dogshit Particles and Human Skin Flakes; Bedrock Foundation: Sputum, Sputum, Sputum). I put them on today because I am apparently so mouth-breathingly stupid I believe that a pair of severely uncomfortable shoes, if given enough time, will magically morph into something tolerable, possibly by rearranging all the bones in my feet.
Other than hurting myself with fashion, it’s been a low-key week so far. JB’s parents left this morning, which means we can turn the heat in our house back down to non-tropical levels, but sadly it also means the built in babysitters are gone and we’ll have to pay attention to our own son. God, what a pain in the ass.
I’m just kidding (sort of), but Riley will surely miss having his grandfather around, because much like he plays favorites with JB, he is completely enamored with JB’s dad – while showing only a cursory interest in JB’s mom. It’s marginally comforting to know I’m not the only female in my son’s life who plays second fiddle to the much-preferred MAN, but really, I’m starting to wonder if it would really be so wrong to sport a strap-on dildo in Riley’s presence. Sure, it sounds bad, but I’m just talking about tipping the scales back in my favor.
Actually, I may have a second shot at becoming the Preferred Parent, although I swear that’s not the reason I finally decided that I was on board with trying for baby numero two-o. It has to do with wanting Riley to have a sibling and having one more chance to smell a newborn’s head and probably being sort of eternally, optimistically foolish (see above re: shoes) and anyway, so yeah, I don’t have any idea how long it will take, but we’re officially going for it. Oh my god.*
* By the way, how disturbing is it that after I posted this, I saw on my referral-tracking-RSS-thingie a search for “regret second child”? If you regret one of your own children, is Google really going to help? I mean, isn’t that what eBay is for?
Jan
28
January 28, 2007
It’s been a phenomenally beautiful weekend here in Seattle. Cold, yes, but the sky is the deepest shade of blue, the sun is bright and the skies are radiant with a clarity that showcases the snow-dolloped mountains on every horizon.
It’s true that living in the Northwest can sometimes make you feel as though it’s only a matter of time until everyone in the area biologically evolves to sport a fleshy pair of gills and an umbrellalike bony protuberance extending from their heads, but I’ll tell you, it certainly gives you a nearly rabid appreciation for the kind of weather we had today and yesterday.
(I realize this is sort of like saying that if someone is stabbing you in the eye with a sharpened pencil for the majority of the year, those days that are pencil-free are fucking awesome.)
We ended up going out to dinner on Friday night instead of seeing a movie, and although a three-hour meal that included appetizers and dessert didn’t really mesh with the whole It’s Not a Diet It’s a Lifestyle Change thing, I figured, how many times per year do I really have the opportunity to sit in a nice restaurant and not worry about the amount of applesauce my dining companion is smearing on his shirt? Those chances are few and far between, my friends, and it would take a much stronger constitution than what I currently possess to eschew the chocolate brioche bread pudding (which, by the way, was so delicious it made my eyes roll back in my head. Twice).
The restaurant we went to was the Yarrow Bay Grill, which I’ve always liked, and I have a $25 gift certificate that can be used there or at the more-casual Beach Cafe. If you live in the area and think you might be able to use the gift card by February 4 (when it expires), leave me a comment and I’ll mail it to you.
Also! I need you to settle a disagreement between JB and I: how much are you supposed to tip a valet, the guy who brings your car around? Valet service at Yarrow Bay is $5, and JB thinks you should tip another five on top of that. I say one dollar. There’s also a jug to drop in gratuities at the end of the $8 carwash, where someone wipes off your car (after someone hoses your car down before you go into the automated whatsit), and I think a good tip for that would be at least two dollars, but JB says one dollar at most. He thinks a valet should be tipped more for taking care of your multi-thousand-dollar-car, I think driving a car twenty feet out of a parking lot is definitely worth less than helping get your car cleaned. Help! We need a tipping Sherpa.
Lastly, some photos from yesterday:
Look, Cat isn’t always evil. Here she is carefully observing the boy for a moment of weakness so she can devour his soft pink flesh starting with the nose to make sure he stays safe near the street.
Hopefully avoiding dogshit, but probably not.
My boy, Suspicious McPunkface.
We took Riley to the farm yesterday afternoon, here we are peering at an unseen cow.
JB and Riley looking at rabbits.
Do not fuck with this chicken. It will cutchew.
Riley learned about the moon this weekend, he loves to point and say “Mmmah!” or “Moo!”.
“Mooaah!”
JB swinging Riley back and forth, and a slow shutter speed.
I promise JB’s not really whipping Riley around in a circle. Really.
Nor is JB actually throwing him this high in the — well, actually, yes he is. It’s okay though, Cat was nearby so she could have provided a semi-soft landing if necessary.
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