Here is a blog that is not about work. Calm yourself down; I know this is a rarity. I'm sick about talking about survival. I'm surviving, if surviving means rolling outta bed at 10 and eating PB&J. Shitsruff. I seem to have lost my magic touch to blog about anything other than hustlin' coffee and groaning about growing pains. Onward...
I threw some clothes in a bag and hit the road in the MomBalt last week, homeward bound for boyfriend surprising and baby welcoming. What a swell ol' time. Guppy is no longer an unknown mound under a maternity shirt; her name is Scarlet and she's basically amazing.
NBD.
I spent a portion of our nation's birthday curled into a lactose hating ball, listening to a Calgary Stampeder's game in an adjacent room. Advice to live by: not asking for double cheese on your sub when you're lactose intolerant will not only prevent explosive stomach pains, but will save you forty cents! Knowledge is power. The other portion of Canada day was spent making googly eyes at my swoon worthy better half under a night sky filled with fireworks. Romance is not dead: Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett and the uh-may-zing Billy Mays are.
Other highlights of the mini-vacation include being beat into submission at mini golf, bed linen intensive conversations, birthday cake, and getting laid - a lot.
I'm enjoying Neko Case and putting honey mustard on everything, lately. I'm going to actually cook myself a real dinner again one of these nights, and it's going to be the most explosive, orgasmic food experience ever felt by a human being. Eating caramel rice cakes in front of a re-run of CSI: does not constitute as a proper meal, I am told.
That makes no sense at all to me, because I am clearly a nutritionist.
Oh, and a happy United States day to you, my yankee friend.
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