I’m a whole day late on this one. Sorry, guys. My sister is in town this weekend, so blogging is likely to be sparse until Monday. But I thought I would take advantage of the late morning semi-stillness to do some quick takes. They will be quick, though.
might have croup. Sigh. She woke up in the middle of the night with that awful dog-barking cough, and has been walking around hacking all morning.
This is on top of the stomach bug that she and Sienna have been battling since last weekend. Oh, and Sienna has an ear infection now.
I keep telling the Ogre that I’m waving my little white flag, and no one seems to be noticing. Isn’t there some just war theory rule against continually attacking someone who’s cowering on the ground with their arms covering their head, crying, “I give up! You win!”? Because there should be.
Our No Grains/No Sweets Lenten Fast
went smashing through the window this week. I felt it was intrinsically wrong to refuse my children crackers and sprite while they were hurling and crying, and I was quite frankly way too exhausted to do the shopping, food prep and cooking.
But the Ogre and I have vowed to return to it on Monday. We are determined to end this Lent with a bang, not a whimper.
|(Yep, that’s my man, right there in the front. Oh, swoon. And no, you can’t print this picture. Back off.)|
has gone down four notches in his belt since the beginning of Lent. And do you know what he said to me?
“I’ve lost all this weight because you’re starving me! You’re starving me! You sadist!”
For the record, I’ve lost five pounds. Five. That’s like, nothing. I’m not happy about it, but it seems that my body refuses to let go of weight when I’m breastfeeding. If I wasn’t so lazy, I’d consider not breastfeeding just so I didn’t look like the freaking marshmallow man this swimsuit season.
But I’m pretty lazy, and mixing up some formula sounds like a whole lot of work.
My Childhood Doctor
|Did anyone else love the Austin Powers movies? Just me, then? Okay.|
once told my mother that she and I were “built to survive a concentration camp.”
I. am. not. joking. He said that our bodies just hold on to fat, and that we should really be grateful, because if the world ever ended we would be the last to die of starvation.
In what deranged world is that something to be grateful for? I mean, if I need to stay alive for my kids, yes, absolutely. But say my Ogre and my offspring get taken out in the first big…whatever. Then what? I get to just sit around while my body survives? Thanks a lot, fat-hoarding self. You’d really be doing me a favor there.
I Had to Stop
reading the Drudge Report because every day that I read it I was sure that the world was going to end within the week.
Once I realized that it would, in fact, be better to just die in the first big…whatever (oh come on, I don’t know how the world’s going to end!), I stopped obsessively asking the Ogre if we could stock up on dehydrated food and Uzis and began just insisting that we go to confession all the time.
Then one time, I walked into the confessional and realized that I didn’t know what to say. Usually I go to confession when I have something very specific in mind to confess, and then after a good examination of conscience am horrified to discover that I have a laundry list of sins on my conscience. But this time, I didn’t have anything really pressing to confess, I was just sure that someone was planning on bringing a nuclear bomb into the MGM casino that very day and I’d quite like to die with a clean conscience. Then in the hustle and bustle of bathing, dressing, and feeding children and myself I didn’t have time to do an examination of conscience, and there was no line for the confessional, so I hurtled through the door and kneeled and then…stammered. I’m pretty sure I said something like, “Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been four days since my last confession. I’m….I’m not really sure how I’ve sinned in the last four days, but I know I have. I’ve probably…well, I didn’t get my kids in bed on time, and I didn’t get the dishes done before bed so my husband had to do them, and I typed OMG in a combox, and, well…”
Yeah. Confession fail.
When the MGM wasn’t nuked that night, I thought that perhaps instead of obsessively keeping my soul in a state of battle-readiness, I should just stop reading the Drudge Report.
And I’m pleased to announce that I have since become a much more stable person.
On A Completely Unrelated Note
there are a few things in the blogging world that make me want to scream and throw something at someone. Far and away the number one thing that I hate in combox conversations is when people address other people by using the @ symbol.
How freaking rude is that! Seriously. In my mind, there is nothing ruder and more belittling than talking “@” someone.
You’re not talking with them. You’re not talking to them. You’re not addressing them politely. You’re not even engaging in a conversation in which you expect a reply! No, you’re hurtling your grenade-like words across the the tubes of the internet “@” them.
So please, you wonderful, lovely people who read my blog, please NEVER use the @ symbol in my combox. Because it’s rude.
And On That Note, Because I Can’t Think Of One Last Quick Take, And Because My Two-Year Old is Hacking Up a Lung in My Lap,
here you go.
Happy Saturday! Go see Jen
for more quick takes.