I am learning how to live on a lot less sleep, and have even managed to cook a meal once or twice. Life is returning to normal…ish. Plus, you know, a baby. My return to work date is looming, and I am both excited for it and dreading it. I miss my co-workers and using that part of my brain. I also do not want to relinquish the care of my precious baby to anyone whose name does not rhyme with Yumasaurus. But it must be done, and thus we have begun the fascinating and grueling process of finding a nanny.
We have posted a couple of ads, and the response has been varied. Some are easy to weed out. One of my first questions is, “Are you allergic to cats?” because, hi, those are our other babies. You cannot avoid the cat fur and love in our house. I’ve had one or two people tell me they’d be o.k. as long as they don’t touch the cats. And I must respond with “How about if they touch you?” because Tatum is very jealous of the baby, and demands equal attention and rubs all over you constantly if you deign to hold the baby and not him.
I also am not interested in smokers, which is pretty common among new moms. And while the correct answer to the question, “Do you smoke?” is “No” that no must be honest. I had one lady tell me, “Oh, no.”
…
“But if I do have a cigarette, it’s only at night. Socially. I would never smoke in front of the kids.”
Needless to say I didn’t invite her over for an in-person interview.
The grandmother who was unable to furnish any references besides her daughter was also rejected, as were all the university students who think they’d be a perfect fit for my 9-5 job, except they are in class during the day so they are only available on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 6:00 PM to 8:00 PM, except on the second Tuesday of every month when they have their drum circle that they are absolutely dedicated to and couldn’t possibly give up.
So far the front-runner for me is a Tibetan woman who says she likes to cook traditional Tibetan and Indian food. (Note we are not asking the nanny to cook, she was just talking about what she likes to do in her free time.) I was drooling, while The Funasaurus, who has a real issue with food that is mushy, looked on in horror. He, meanwhile, has a strong preference for the hot, young, yoga instructor who looks like Katie Holmes circa the post-Dawson’s Creek but pre-Tom Cruise era. Except skinnier. And Toned-er. Never mind that she is only available through August, those could be a glorious eight months or so.
We continue to interview.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Thursday, December 03, 2009
Update on Some Very Bad Cats
Thank you for all the supportive comments. I am glad to hear from multiple sources that it gets easier. These days I’m just trying not to be too jealous of a swing…currently my daughter seems to prefer being in it than in my arms. This is both frustrating and also very convenient for getting other things done.
I had big plans to tell you all about the Ordeal of Tatum, but I am tired, so the abbreviated version is: the little poophead disappeared about a week after we brought Miss Thang home from the hospital. We were pretty sure he got outside somehow, and for five days I would sob hysterically on the couch at 3:00 in the morning as I listened to the coyotes howl just outside our front door, convincing myself that I was truly unfit to be a mother if I couldn’t even keep a cat safe. Tatum is cute but dumb, and I believe any sort of survival skills have been bred right out of him. It is also getting cold in Colorado, and Tatum does not possess much fur, so I was sure he had turned into a kitty popsicle for added coyote nibbling pleasure.
We all mourned the little stinker, even Sugar, who started crying at the door whenever we left, which was a habit she had back in the day that convinced us to get her a playmate in the first place. She would never admit it, but she missed Tatum a lot. I was…more open about my distress. The Funasaurus was sent out to troll the neighborhood whistling and offering faux mice to the wind many times.
On the fifth night, around 3:00AM, I thought I heard him cry as I was feeding Miss Thang. I made The Funasaurus get up and check outside. The night was apparently cold, but Tatum-less. Around 6:00AM I was SURE I heard him. So I sprang out of bed half-naked, with Miss Thang still attached, and ran all over calling him. (As fast as one can run with a newborn attached to your boob.) He was in the basement, just sitting on the other side of the door, all, “What took you so long?” He then proceeded upstairs where he snarfed some food and promptly demanded a mouse.
I called the 24-hour vet to see if we needed to bring him in for dehydration, and she asked if he was refusing food or acting lethargic. I moved out of Sugar’s way as Tatum chased her up the stairs, and decided we probably didn’t need to go in.
So he is home, safe, loved, and obnoxious as ever. He’s also quite jealous of Miss Thang, and has developed this habit where he demands to be held whenever she is being held. Fortunately, my parents have been down to help me out a lot, and while my mom helps with diapers and burping, my dad carries Tatum around (when he’s not throwing faux mice for him) and everyone feels useful and loved.
Now we just need to convince Sugar that when the baby finally goes to sleep we all need to go to sleep. Currently she sees it as her opportunity to cuddle with her very poke-y claws.
I had big plans to tell you all about the Ordeal of Tatum, but I am tired, so the abbreviated version is: the little poophead disappeared about a week after we brought Miss Thang home from the hospital. We were pretty sure he got outside somehow, and for five days I would sob hysterically on the couch at 3:00 in the morning as I listened to the coyotes howl just outside our front door, convincing myself that I was truly unfit to be a mother if I couldn’t even keep a cat safe. Tatum is cute but dumb, and I believe any sort of survival skills have been bred right out of him. It is also getting cold in Colorado, and Tatum does not possess much fur, so I was sure he had turned into a kitty popsicle for added coyote nibbling pleasure.
We all mourned the little stinker, even Sugar, who started crying at the door whenever we left, which was a habit she had back in the day that convinced us to get her a playmate in the first place. She would never admit it, but she missed Tatum a lot. I was…more open about my distress. The Funasaurus was sent out to troll the neighborhood whistling and offering faux mice to the wind many times.
On the fifth night, around 3:00AM, I thought I heard him cry as I was feeding Miss Thang. I made The Funasaurus get up and check outside. The night was apparently cold, but Tatum-less. Around 6:00AM I was SURE I heard him. So I sprang out of bed half-naked, with Miss Thang still attached, and ran all over calling him. (As fast as one can run with a newborn attached to your boob.) He was in the basement, just sitting on the other side of the door, all, “What took you so long?” He then proceeded upstairs where he snarfed some food and promptly demanded a mouse.
I called the 24-hour vet to see if we needed to bring him in for dehydration, and she asked if he was refusing food or acting lethargic. I moved out of Sugar’s way as Tatum chased her up the stairs, and decided we probably didn’t need to go in.
So he is home, safe, loved, and obnoxious as ever. He’s also quite jealous of Miss Thang, and has developed this habit where he demands to be held whenever she is being held. Fortunately, my parents have been down to help me out a lot, and while my mom helps with diapers and burping, my dad carries Tatum around (when he’s not throwing faux mice for him) and everyone feels useful and loved.
Now we just need to convince Sugar that when the baby finally goes to sleep we all need to go to sleep. Currently she sees it as her opportunity to cuddle with her very poke-y claws.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Queen for a Day..and then Another Day
Hi hi. I am still here. Barely. I got four consecutive hours of sleep last night, which is the most sleep I’ve gotten in a month, and so I am feeling fabulous and productive this morning.
Motherhood is kicking my ass. We started a blog for family and friends with pictures of Miss Thang. I try to remain optimistic and light there, since we are not trying to strike fear into the hearts of our loved ones. But I plan on being a little more candid here. Overall, I think we’re doing pretty good. And each day IS getting a little easier, if only a tiny bit so. But it’s really fucking hard, too. There are so many decisions that have to be made while running on a nominal amount sleep and major amount stress. Who is it o.k. to whip out a boob in front of? Should I try and force this itty-bitty shirt over my screaming child’s head, or risk letting her freeze to death? Can I keep my mouth shut when yet another random person tries to give me advice that I already have heard fourteen times? Is it o.k. to try and grab a bite to eat when I’m starving if my child is still sobbing hysterically? Should I bother to try and clean the mold off of the dishes that are piling up in the sink, or just invest in paper plates someday when I make it back to the grocery store?
See what I mean? Candid. I am not open to criticism, thanks anyway.
Meanwhile, apparently the world outside continues to turn, but I am not really aware of it. I have lost track of days, but I am happy I get ten weeks of maternity leave to invest in this baby. Each day I learn a little more, and get a little closer to this tiny person. I do not know how women go back to work sooner. Really, my hat is off to you if you have done that. Also, I have a newfound respect for single mothers. That is an inconceivable notion to me. I do not think I could have physically or mentally gotten this far without The Funasaurus. Seriously, if you were raised by or know a single mom, perhaps you should buy her something very expensive and sparkly for Thanksgiving. And then again for Chanukah and Christmas. Also perhaps a crapload of liquor.
Speaking of Thanksgiving, we are actually hosting this year. And by “hosting” I mean, “we will unlock the door to our house and let my mom come in with all the supplies and cook in our kitchen.” Of course, we have a new gas stove, and we are smelling quite a bit of natural gas when we turn the oven on. The Funasaurus and I have blissfully gone about cooking (mostly chocolate chip cookies) in our exhausted new-parent stupor, but my mom is somewhat concerned about the natural gas. She has these silly concerns about blowing up our new little family, apparently that’s not part of her Thanksgiving day plan. So I have tried to call the builder, who told me to call the gas company, who told me to call this other number, who have told me they’d call back sometime to schedule a day to come out and test our oven.
I have doubts about whether this will happen before Thanksgiving. In which case, I am starting to wonder if we are going to have to just start popping little Cornish game hens one by one into our toaster oven starting around Miss Thang’s 3:00AM feeding on Thursday morning. That should be awesome.
Next up, the story of Tatum, the little shit we can’t live without.
Motherhood is kicking my ass. We started a blog for family and friends with pictures of Miss Thang. I try to remain optimistic and light there, since we are not trying to strike fear into the hearts of our loved ones. But I plan on being a little more candid here. Overall, I think we’re doing pretty good. And each day IS getting a little easier, if only a tiny bit so. But it’s really fucking hard, too. There are so many decisions that have to be made while running on a nominal amount sleep and major amount stress. Who is it o.k. to whip out a boob in front of? Should I try and force this itty-bitty shirt over my screaming child’s head, or risk letting her freeze to death? Can I keep my mouth shut when yet another random person tries to give me advice that I already have heard fourteen times? Is it o.k. to try and grab a bite to eat when I’m starving if my child is still sobbing hysterically? Should I bother to try and clean the mold off of the dishes that are piling up in the sink, or just invest in paper plates someday when I make it back to the grocery store?
See what I mean? Candid. I am not open to criticism, thanks anyway.
Meanwhile, apparently the world outside continues to turn, but I am not really aware of it. I have lost track of days, but I am happy I get ten weeks of maternity leave to invest in this baby. Each day I learn a little more, and get a little closer to this tiny person. I do not know how women go back to work sooner. Really, my hat is off to you if you have done that. Also, I have a newfound respect for single mothers. That is an inconceivable notion to me. I do not think I could have physically or mentally gotten this far without The Funasaurus. Seriously, if you were raised by or know a single mom, perhaps you should buy her something very expensive and sparkly for Thanksgiving. And then again for Chanukah and Christmas. Also perhaps a crapload of liquor.
Speaking of Thanksgiving, we are actually hosting this year. And by “hosting” I mean, “we will unlock the door to our house and let my mom come in with all the supplies and cook in our kitchen.” Of course, we have a new gas stove, and we are smelling quite a bit of natural gas when we turn the oven on. The Funasaurus and I have blissfully gone about cooking (mostly chocolate chip cookies) in our exhausted new-parent stupor, but my mom is somewhat concerned about the natural gas. She has these silly concerns about blowing up our new little family, apparently that’s not part of her Thanksgiving day plan. So I have tried to call the builder, who told me to call the gas company, who told me to call this other number, who have told me they’d call back sometime to schedule a day to come out and test our oven.
I have doubts about whether this will happen before Thanksgiving. In which case, I am starting to wonder if we are going to have to just start popping little Cornish game hens one by one into our toaster oven starting around Miss Thang’s 3:00AM feeding on Thursday morning. That should be awesome.
Next up, the story of Tatum, the little shit we can’t live without.
Monday, November 09, 2009
OMG
I am somebody's mother.
Introducing Miss Thang.
I'm sorry posting has been light. (read: nonexistant.) Parenting has been as hard as I expected. It's rewarding in unexpected ways, and this little person is amazingly time-consuming for being all of seven pounds plus change.
More to come, I just wanted to let you know I survived labor (mostly) and there is a new princess in town. I'm not even sorry to share the title.
Introducing Miss Thang.
I'm sorry posting has been light. (read: nonexistant.) Parenting has been as hard as I expected. It's rewarding in unexpected ways, and this little person is amazingly time-consuming for being all of seven pounds plus change.
More to come, I just wanted to let you know I survived labor (mostly) and there is a new princess in town. I'm not even sorry to share the title.
Friday, October 09, 2009
One Track...zzzzzzzzz
My brain is dead, making me kind of incompetent at things like walking, let alone writing. I do still want to write, but every time I get the slightest inkling the pregnant corner (is there a corner? I think it might have taken over the whole thing more like a supreme dictator) part of my brain goes, “Or you could nap.” And, really, napping is so amazing it is better than any drug you could ever possibly imagine. I love it so much.
Everything around here is also babybabybaby, and I didn’t really like those people before I got pregnant, so I’ve been reluctant to put it out on the interwebs that I am, indeed, that person now. I am all about the BabyCenter chat rooms, the pediatrician interviews, the measuring my cervix doctor appointments, the buying/borrowing plastic shit that I don’t really comprehend but apparently cannot raise a baby without, the packing my bags for the hospital, etc. I am also trying to stay employed, which is harder than it sounds when you factor in the aforementioned brain deadness, napping, and all-consuming baby lifestyle.
I feel like these are very first-world problems. Whaaa, I still can’t have brie and cabernet. Life is so hard. Also, how do you feel about cloth diapering?
Meanwhile The Funasaurus left for Seattle this morning for work, and I feel like we are perhaps tempting the universe just a little bit by sending him hundreds of miles away when I am less than two weeks away from my due date (and we know how much the universe likes to accommodate my plans) so I am trying not to panic and just squeezing my legs together really tightly for the next three days.
Last night I changed the sheets on our bed, and decided to put down a garbage bag underneath the sheet on my side in an attempt to save our mattress should my water break while I am sleeping. It could happen. I sleep a lot these days. I think I might have mentioned…? Anywhos, I woke up around 1:45 AM, sure that my water had broken, given that my hip (I can only sleep on my side now) was rather damp. I woke up, excited to tell The Funasaurus that his trip was cancelled. Also we were having a baby. But then I got up and walked and felt oddly dry everywhere else besides my hip and thigh. I did not quite understand what was going on, plus it was the middle of the night so I was only semi-conscious, so I decided to go back to bed to see what would happen. I woke up again three hours later, again with a wet hip and thigh, but nothing else, and suddenly a little lightbulb flashed in my brain and I realized that my water was probably still intact, but that I was drenched in sweat because I was sleeping on a plastic bag under nice, warm covers, OMG I AM AN IDIOT.
So the bag was removed and I remained dry for the rest of the night and The Funasaurus left and now I’m wondering what to eat for dinner that has the least likelihood of causing labor. Any suggestions?
Everything around here is also babybabybaby, and I didn’t really like those people before I got pregnant, so I’ve been reluctant to put it out on the interwebs that I am, indeed, that person now. I am all about the BabyCenter chat rooms, the pediatrician interviews, the measuring my cervix doctor appointments, the buying/borrowing plastic shit that I don’t really comprehend but apparently cannot raise a baby without, the packing my bags for the hospital, etc. I am also trying to stay employed, which is harder than it sounds when you factor in the aforementioned brain deadness, napping, and all-consuming baby lifestyle.
I feel like these are very first-world problems. Whaaa, I still can’t have brie and cabernet. Life is so hard. Also, how do you feel about cloth diapering?
Meanwhile The Funasaurus left for Seattle this morning for work, and I feel like we are perhaps tempting the universe just a little bit by sending him hundreds of miles away when I am less than two weeks away from my due date (and we know how much the universe likes to accommodate my plans) so I am trying not to panic and just squeezing my legs together really tightly for the next three days.
Last night I changed the sheets on our bed, and decided to put down a garbage bag underneath the sheet on my side in an attempt to save our mattress should my water break while I am sleeping. It could happen. I sleep a lot these days. I think I might have mentioned…? Anywhos, I woke up around 1:45 AM, sure that my water had broken, given that my hip (I can only sleep on my side now) was rather damp. I woke up, excited to tell The Funasaurus that his trip was cancelled. Also we were having a baby. But then I got up and walked and felt oddly dry everywhere else besides my hip and thigh. I did not quite understand what was going on, plus it was the middle of the night so I was only semi-conscious, so I decided to go back to bed to see what would happen. I woke up again three hours later, again with a wet hip and thigh, but nothing else, and suddenly a little lightbulb flashed in my brain and I realized that my water was probably still intact, but that I was drenched in sweat because I was sleeping on a plastic bag under nice, warm covers, OMG I AM AN IDIOT.
So the bag was removed and I remained dry for the rest of the night and The Funasaurus left and now I’m wondering what to eat for dinner that has the least likelihood of causing labor. Any suggestions?
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Once Upon a Funasaurus Marrying a Princess Pregnancy Idiot
Today The Funasaurus and I celebrated two years of marriage (when did that happen?) by eating burgers and chocolate cookies for dinner. We like to stay sophisticated like that.
Remember how I told you that my child seems to favor Beyonce, particularly the “Single Ladies” song? That was well-proved again after watching tonight’s episode of Glee, and its many iterations of that song, making my child sit up and wiggle each time the uh-oh-oh comes on. (Yes, I totally watch that show, just like everyone else. It is unexpectedly living up to the hype. Way to make musical theater mainstream, Fox. Who knew you could pull it off?) Apparently my child is not the only one.
I seriously cannot get enough of this video. Feel like my child is doing more or less the same thing on my bladder these days. I only hope she is that cute.
Speaking of the child…I am 36 weeks along. I am due in late-ish October, but potentially she could come sooner. Since we haven’t gotten around to getting a car seat yet (I hear we might want one of those) I’m hoping she continues to just stay where she is, abusing my bladder, for just a little bit longer.
The symptoms only get worse from here on out, though, including my pregnancy brain. The thing which led me to believe that it would be a good idea to try and catch a wasp that was in my house and save its little life by putting it outside today. Let me just tell you now so that you do not make such a silly assumption, wasps are indeed fucking ungrateful little bastards. Ungrateful little bastards with very pointy, venomous butts.
The full story starts with Sugar making some very excited noises in the stairwell today, and after a few minutes, I got curious as to what had made her excited enough to leave the Pooping Pigeon Show for such an extended amount of time. I find her and Tatum staring and pawing excitedly at the stairwell where a wasp is casually wandering along like he owns this ‘hood. As trips to the emergency vet clinic danced through my head, I waddled as quickly as I could to the bathroom, grabbed a hand towel, and decided to try and capture the thing and release it outside. The capture went well, the cats’ disappointment was palatable, and I waddled quickly to the front door, where I shook the towel…but nothing fell out. Feeling fairly badass by this point, I blithely looked around the towel instead of running for cover like one should know to do when one has captured, terrified, pissed-off, and forcibly removed a wasp from its ‘hood. Naturally, the little fucker was still clinging to the towel, looking for someone upon whom to unleash his rage.
Look no further, wasp! I am here, bloated and stupid and poking my sausage-like finger nearly in your face. Merry Christmas.
So that stung a lot. The towel is still outside, and I panicked, sure that I had somehow damaged my unborn child forevermore. I called the doctor, but only got a voicemail. So I called urgent care, but they said they couldn’t help unless I came in. I wasn’t sure if I was dying or perhaps overreacting just a little. I called my pediatrician friend, left a I’m-trying-to-be-cool-but-please-help! voicemail, and finally turned to Google, who assured me that unless I was having an allergic reaction, I, and my baby, were probably fine. Love u, Google.
This evening I went outside to collect the towel, and I’ll be darned, but the wasp’s corpse was still on the thing! So I tried to wipe it off, but wasp corpses are very clingy. Except it’s not really a corpse, because it suddenly sprang to life, not very excited about being wiped against the cement step.
Pregnancy brain is a very real thing, folks. It makes you something beyond moronic. Even morons tend to understand the concept of “once bitten, twice shy.” Take note. Also, please send Benadryl.
Remember how I told you that my child seems to favor Beyonce, particularly the “Single Ladies” song? That was well-proved again after watching tonight’s episode of Glee, and its many iterations of that song, making my child sit up and wiggle each time the uh-oh-oh comes on. (Yes, I totally watch that show, just like everyone else. It is unexpectedly living up to the hype. Way to make musical theater mainstream, Fox. Who knew you could pull it off?) Apparently my child is not the only one.
I seriously cannot get enough of this video. Feel like my child is doing more or less the same thing on my bladder these days. I only hope she is that cute.
Speaking of the child…I am 36 weeks along. I am due in late-ish October, but potentially she could come sooner. Since we haven’t gotten around to getting a car seat yet (I hear we might want one of those) I’m hoping she continues to just stay where she is, abusing my bladder, for just a little bit longer.
The symptoms only get worse from here on out, though, including my pregnancy brain. The thing which led me to believe that it would be a good idea to try and catch a wasp that was in my house and save its little life by putting it outside today. Let me just tell you now so that you do not make such a silly assumption, wasps are indeed fucking ungrateful little bastards. Ungrateful little bastards with very pointy, venomous butts.
The full story starts with Sugar making some very excited noises in the stairwell today, and after a few minutes, I got curious as to what had made her excited enough to leave the Pooping Pigeon Show for such an extended amount of time. I find her and Tatum staring and pawing excitedly at the stairwell where a wasp is casually wandering along like he owns this ‘hood. As trips to the emergency vet clinic danced through my head, I waddled as quickly as I could to the bathroom, grabbed a hand towel, and decided to try and capture the thing and release it outside. The capture went well, the cats’ disappointment was palatable, and I waddled quickly to the front door, where I shook the towel…but nothing fell out. Feeling fairly badass by this point, I blithely looked around the towel instead of running for cover like one should know to do when one has captured, terrified, pissed-off, and forcibly removed a wasp from its ‘hood. Naturally, the little fucker was still clinging to the towel, looking for someone upon whom to unleash his rage.
Look no further, wasp! I am here, bloated and stupid and poking my sausage-like finger nearly in your face. Merry Christmas.
So that stung a lot. The towel is still outside, and I panicked, sure that I had somehow damaged my unborn child forevermore. I called the doctor, but only got a voicemail. So I called urgent care, but they said they couldn’t help unless I came in. I wasn’t sure if I was dying or perhaps overreacting just a little. I called my pediatrician friend, left a I’m-trying-to-be-cool-but-please-help! voicemail, and finally turned to Google, who assured me that unless I was having an allergic reaction, I, and my baby, were probably fine. Love u, Google.
This evening I went outside to collect the towel, and I’ll be darned, but the wasp’s corpse was still on the thing! So I tried to wipe it off, but wasp corpses are very clingy. Except it’s not really a corpse, because it suddenly sprang to life, not very excited about being wiped against the cement step.
Pregnancy brain is a very real thing, folks. It makes you something beyond moronic. Even morons tend to understand the concept of “once bitten, twice shy.” Take note. Also, please send Benadryl.
Friday, September 18, 2009
September? When Did That Happen?
Fucking pigeons and their pooping habits. I have enough pink onsies, if someone would like to send me a BB gun as a baby gift, I will gladly accept it. Currently the pigeons seem to enjoy taunting my cats, and are pooping at least once an hour on my window and it makes me throw up a little every time it happens.
Speaking of windows, we still do not have window coverings. I wear a baseball cap to work, now, because the glare from the windows behind my computer is so bright. I also am still not so fond of showering (although to his credit, The Funasaurus did apply window frosting to our bathroom windows, so we are no longer giving nudie shows to potential neighbors every time we shower, so there goes that excuse for lack of hygiene) and between that, the baseball cap, and the three t-shirts I have in rotation that still fit over my enormous midsection, I am a sexy, sexy sight to behold. I am also so bloated that I had to wrench my wedding ring off because of circulation issues, and while I am very emotional about not getting to wear those right now, The Funasaurus really has nothing to fear as far as my lack of marital status symbol goes, for the few times a week I do venture out into public.
Meanwhile at work my boss has given her two week notice, and they have brought on a new director to our division, so I am subtly trying to ingratiate myself to him (fortunately, he lives in another state, or I might have baked him cookies) because I feel like taking off several weeks and delegating my work to other competent people is kind of spectacularly crappy timing right when there are huge shifts in management going on. At least there’s still work to do.
On that note, I should probably get back to it. That and/or a strawberry popsicle. Work and popsicles are (happily) not mutually exclusive concepts.
Speaking of windows, we still do not have window coverings. I wear a baseball cap to work, now, because the glare from the windows behind my computer is so bright. I also am still not so fond of showering (although to his credit, The Funasaurus did apply window frosting to our bathroom windows, so we are no longer giving nudie shows to potential neighbors every time we shower, so there goes that excuse for lack of hygiene) and between that, the baseball cap, and the three t-shirts I have in rotation that still fit over my enormous midsection, I am a sexy, sexy sight to behold. I am also so bloated that I had to wrench my wedding ring off because of circulation issues, and while I am very emotional about not getting to wear those right now, The Funasaurus really has nothing to fear as far as my lack of marital status symbol goes, for the few times a week I do venture out into public.
Meanwhile at work my boss has given her two week notice, and they have brought on a new director to our division, so I am subtly trying to ingratiate myself to him (fortunately, he lives in another state, or I might have baked him cookies) because I feel like taking off several weeks and delegating my work to other competent people is kind of spectacularly crappy timing right when there are huge shifts in management going on. At least there’s still work to do.
On that note, I should probably get back to it. That and/or a strawberry popsicle. Work and popsicles are (happily) not mutually exclusive concepts.
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