I am sick. Again.  It’s the sinus infection that won’t quit, now with more phlegm!  I wish I could remove my pounding head and lay it down on a nice pillow with some soft music for it to recover for a day or so while I go about my business. 

I’m now on my third round of antibiotics (heeellllloooo, yeast infection, my old friend.) because I was a dipshit and kept forgetting to take my medicine correctly the last go-round.  Kind of like how I keeping forgetting the correct way to wear underwear.  Every day this past week, I discover half-way through the day that I’m wearing it inside out. What the hell is that all about?

I also recently found two thongs stuck to the freshly laundered sweater I had been wearing.  Luckily I’d only been to, let’s see, three stores, before realizing there were bright teal and red underwear trying to escape through my neck-hole. Char. Ming.

It’s all the fault of one pint-sized germ factory.  Before him, I don’t believe I’d been this sick, or stupid, since…I’m thinking 1998?

In the meantime, I’ve got a box of tissues and a mug of Tiramisu coffee at my elbow, and a heating pad on my neck.  And I’m going to occasionally moan pathetically to myself.  Carry on.

This is one of the sucky parts of freelancing...no sick days.

I’ll be here propped up with expandable folders and duct tape if anyone needs me.

So, it’s going on four days of gorgeous 60-70+ weather here in Lancaster.  I’m cautiously optimistic that it’s going to stick this time.  I’ve got to believe that, because the previous cold weather has just about beaten me down.  I’ve been dying to get started on the flowerbeds, digging out the stuff that just didn’t make it and try out a few new plants I’ve been reading about over the winter.

Although I love gardening, I am pretty hopeless at it.  The joke around the house is usually as follows:
Me:  Hey, I’m headed to the garden center
Him: What, need more victims for sacrifice?

My ability to keep plants alive is directly proportional to my attention span.  Meaning, wait, what were we talking about?

I’d really like to take a serious shot at vegetable and herb gardening this year, but couldn’t see myself tearing up perfectly good lawn for what will most likely become a tomato cemetery. Also, with my track record, that prospect of losing hard-earned grass is enough to make Michael weep. I was originally thinking of Square Foot Gardening, which Mac seems to love.  She practically produces her own farmer’s market every year but, then again, she’s got some discipline. Guaranteed she’s not drawn away from her gardening by a new episode of Work Out. Have you seen that woman’s abs?  Delicious.

Then I saw this over at All and Sundry, and a tiny, energy-conserving bulb appeared in my head (casting a weird yellow light, flickering and then going out, as those bastard bulbs are wont to do).  Tub-gardening!  No rototilling! Portable!  Easy to hide the incriminating evidence if I kill it.  I already have one galvantized tub of mint off the back deck, which worked really well, because that stuff has a life of its own.  If you don’t contain it, mint will overrun the lawn, break into your house and try on your underwear while you sleep.  Be warned.

So I’m excited.  Which means a trip to Lowe’s that is sure to drain my bank account is in order this week. Maybe I should just create a little ornamental fire with that money instead.

I leave you with what is probably a typical Lancaster County conversation during the first few warm days of spring, after opening the windows.

Me:  Jesus H., what did you eat last night?
Him: What are you talking about?
Me:  Didn’t you fart?
Him: No!
Me: Seriously? Then what the hell…? Is that the kid’s room?
(much sniffing ensues)
Him: Is it the bathroom?  God that’s horrible.
(more sniffing)
Me:  Oh wait. (sniffs out window)
Him: It’s the farm.  They’re spreading manure.
Me.:  I’m glad it wasn’t your ass.  I was afraid I needed to take you to the ER.

I’ve officially been living in Lancaster County for four years now.

*clunk*

Sorry, I blacked out there for a minute.  Four years doesn’t seem possible. It’s getting frightfully close to the longest I’ve lived anywhere, except my hometown.  I’m not sure how I feel about this milestone.  Until about six months ago, I had really been yearning to get back to a place where people actually said fuck, rather than “oh my word!”, where Ann Taylor Loft is not considered the “that fancy shop”, my family isn’t the sole liberal in a five mile radius and I’m not quoted biblical scripture from mailboxes and front lawns around the county.  Also would be nice to have more than one Dunkin’ Donuts in the county and more than one wine store open on a Sunday.

Some people might consider that superficial but, you know what?  It is what it is.

So, hello! Hi! Wow, look at you… I mean, seriously, look at you!  Have you lost weight?  I mean, your ass is just fabulous in those pants.  You’ve been working out, don’t deny it.

Me?  Oh, I’ve been alright, I’ve been kind of…what’s that?  Ha, yeah I guess it’s been a little while, but I…oh, four months? Really?  No, that can’t be right. It’s probably only been something like….ooooohhhh.  Four months.  Yikes.

What have I been up to?  That’s an excellent question.  I’ve been wondering that myself, since it seems like I was just meticulously rehanging all of my Christmas ornaments two feet higher on the tree like, what two days ago?

It took Alanis singing “My Humps” to get me to put up a damn post after three months. 

The sheer amount of awesomeness here is too much. 

Seriously. Watch the whole thing.

And I’ll be back soon.  Working on starting another blog.  I think Karmatown has had its run and I’m committed to the perspective that, like the right lip gloss, all I need is a new domain and the world will be aligned again.

Shh...don’t rain on my bubble quite yet, k?

So, in flitting over my blogroll this morning, I happen across three seperate posts involving bacon. And one about Kevin Bacon.

BACON?

Are the stars somehow aligned to motivate otherwise normal folks to obsess about crispy, scrumptious breakfast meat?

Damn, bacon sounds like a belly full of awesomeness right now. I may have to do some rummaging in the icebox.

And this brief post brings the total to five. Definitely something in the air.

More intelligent content to come. Really.

I’m having a difficult time getting motivated for Christmas.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m enjoying the hell out of it.  I’ve got the radio programmed to the 24 hour Christmas station and am willing to belt out a Carpenter Christmas number upon request.  I’ve done all, ok MOST, of the shopping, almost completely Internet this year, as I quickly learned that fighting the holiday shopping crowds is slightly less jolly when hauling around a stroller, packages and a feisty 24 lb. child who insists on pooping every time we go out.

I’ve tried to get Emerson involved in the holiday, although how much of it he gets beyond the enticement of empty boxes and tangled ribbon scattered throughout the house, dangling pine branches and glut of delicious pies and sweets fed by willing grandmothers on the sly, I don’t know. We’ve done the holiday photos. We visited Santa (note to new parents…you’re golden until the kid actually eyeballs the Jolly One up close and personal, then it’s scream city.) We sing the Muppets Christmas and we look at the lights.  We’re learning to rip open gifts and are finding we are a quick study.  I wanted this first Christmas to be something special for him, even though in reality he won’t remember it and pretty much anything you do for him on a daily basis is a wonder.

It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve received those emails, or if I totally and completely know better with every corporeal and spiritual cell in my being.  Whenever I see those craptastic messages from Classmates or Reunion websites titled “1 person searching for YOU” and “Who’s signed your GUESTBOOK?” and “we found (insert name of person you looked up once back in 1999 while drunk websurfing) HERE”, my finger spontaneously clicks on the damn link.  To be greeted with absolutely bupkiss except for multiple ways of separating me from $36 (discounted just for you, just today!) of my hard-earned money.  It’s brilliant. You bastards.

I still don’t have a definite offer from the consulting firm, which is starting to stress me right the hell out.  I’ve blown through all of my carefully blasé and appropriately spaced calls to the recruiter, who assured me I am the top candidate and that management just needed to hold some additional internal meetings about the group and, absolutely, certainly, without a doubt, I would hear back from her this week.  In the meantime, I have to sit on my hands to keep me from dialing each member of management and weepily keening PICK MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE into the phone. 

The routine we’ve tried to create for Emerson might be getting a bit out of hand.  I wake up at 6:30 am every morning.  Wakened by the sound of my eyeballs creaking open, Emerson then greets the day by loudly filling his diaper and going back to sleep. Cup of coffee and a diaper full of poo.  What a way to start the day. Every single morning.

While we’re on the subject of poop and, I mean, who doesn’t need ONE MORE baby poop story icepicked into their brain, my son loves to poop in the car. Or maybe he just loves to show his tiny sorry, impressively huge (edited by his father) twig and berries off to shoppers in the parking lots of Lancaster County’s finer retail establishments.  No matter how many times he’s gone that day, no matter how short the car ride, Emerson manages to dig deep within himself to produce a load within five minutes of being on the road.  Making me an expert in the art of the express change and bringing a whole new definition to tailgating.

I’ve taken a passive aggressive approach to these final 12 days of gainful employment.  Originally, I was all about finishing my projects, to get the financial incentive the firm dangled over my head after they crushed it to a bloody pulp.  But the bullshit hasn’t stopped. I still can’t get attorneys to respond to me so I can finish my projects and you know what?  I am d.o.n.e., people.  Turkey’s done, picked clean and the bones have been tossed out, eaten and shit out by the dogs. I’ve been watching the bright, shiny potential replacements earnestly mince in and out of here all week. Screw the incentive. In the big picture, it was pretty paltry, and I’m disgusted I was so game to get it. I’ll finish what I can but cannot bust my ass for partners who couldn’t give a crap (sorry about the number of excrement-related themes here.) I’m so tired of the excuses. Grow the fuck up already. Twisted sister was right. I don’t have to take it anymore.

This might possible the thing that truly gets me into the holiday spirit.  Also possibly divorced.