It’s 9:00 pm on a Friday night and I’m about to start editing a report for one of my clients.  I actually agreed to this, in a moment of weakness over IM, when asked R U busy?  Can U look at something 4 me?  I chirped, Extra hours? Sure! Send it over! What, you want that on Monday, yes? *silence* No, tonight.

Ah.  So I’m reviewing a huge document in like 5 pt. Arial Narrow or something about a topic I know nothing about. It’s time to multi-task with a little wireless and a little CSI.  Much better.

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Emerson and I took our near daily trip to Target this evening.  I have a question.  Is there anyone out there who can deny the gravitational pull of the $1 lots at the front of the store?  Because my empty wallet says I can’t.  Tin buckets! Fuzzy pens! Batteries!  Itty-bitty pads in candy colors!  Jelly shoes, fer cryin’ out loud. (OK, I didn’t buy the jellies. I didn’t even try to stuff my feet in them. Maybe.)

I went to Target to buy a headband to hide my horns. Seriously. Tiny little back story:  Got pregnant, got super-duper strong hair that never fell out. Am ecstatic. Birthed child, breastfed child, maintained anti-shedding Wonder Hair.  Took child off boob, all hair promptly fell out in protest, especially from around temples. Am less than thrilled, maybe even start saving hair. Eight months later I’m sporting these awesome four inch horns that refuse to be tamed by ponytail or bobby pin.  And all those tiny little headbands kept falling off my tiny little head. Or felt like they were squeezing my brain like some plastic, alien lifeform. Until I found this.

This isn’t nearly the right pattern, mine is more retro with purple and green, but it’s light and comfortable, and you can make it as wide or narrow as you want.  I don’t think it’s left my head in almost a week, a fact I’m not ashamed to admit, it’s so good. Horns be gone, plus!  I get to jump on the whole pirate-chic that seems to have appeared. Lucky me!
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For a while now Michael has been pushing to make some additions to the family.  I’ll tell you, I was hesitant.  Was I ready for that kind of commitment?  What would it mean to our daily life? Maybe I’d have too many eggs, what then?  And who was going to clean up all that shit?

Sometimes you have to realize that you’ll never be quite ready. Not for

Chickens.  That’s right, my friends.  Currently there are six 10 day old chickens living under a heat lamp on our dining room table.  I lost control of my senses at some point and now? Goddamn chickens, that’s what.  They are pretty cute, but they poop constantly and I think I went to unload the dishwasher yesterday and while I was gone they grew three inches. These suckers are going to be BIG.  I fully expect one of them to demand coffee, black with a paper next week.  I must be nuts.  It is entertaining though, if only for conversations like this.
Him:  Maybe I shouldn’t be doing this is front of them.
Me: Do what?
Him: Eating chicken.
Me: Do you think they know?
Him: I don’t know.  Somebody told me if you give them chicken skin they’ll eat it. They love it.  It just seems so wrong somehow. But so delicious.

I’m about to crap butterflies here.  I somehow managed to hook up wireless at home and, without too much cursing or kicking of furniture, am now ass-ensconced on the couch, nuzzling a glass of wine and a mini-KitKat in front of CSI.  And Law & Order. And Project Runway. Which, hello? Finale? Awesome. And yes, maybe I did see it last night, but…worth another look. 

Anyone else think Jeffrey’s collection was a little, I don’t know, flaccid?  Or maybe it was just the models.  And who the holy hell really wears that stuff?  I adored Laura’s line, and would wear every piece, but I think Uli was robbed.  I mean, god FORBID they should choose a designer that makes clothes people might be able to wear.

Although Jeffrey ended up being kind of sweet, and not such the uberasshole he seemed destined to be in the early episodes.

Not that I’ve watched every episode. Ahem.

Has our time really become so precious that we must call our secretary on the cell phone to, you know, “just check in” while sitting on the pot in an office rest room?  I appreciate the ability to multi-task as much as anyone else but pah-leeze.

If ever there was a moment I wished for the power to fart on command, it was then.

I have officially hit the pregnancy wall.  This blinking and breathing business is just so TIRING.
Also, the bottom of my belly is getting cold. Check please.

Best cure for your spouse’s snoring.  Buy a scrumptious featherbed and new sheets for the guest room so you can crash there when the log-sawing starts.  Snoring miraculously stops immediately.

Yesterday, I managed to clean and decorate the entire house in six hours.  In that same amount of time, Mr. K put lights on the Christmas tree. They are the world’s most perfect Christmas tree lights.

Bruce Almighty is a funny movie. Even the fifth time it airs over the same two days.

George Burns or Morgan Freeman as God?  Tough choice.

Nothing says the holidays like decorating the house on a snowy day, pumpkin bread in the oven, listening to the Muppets Christmas CD, while a house and buggy clip-clop past your house.  If only I could bottle that.

My crotch hurts.  There. I said it.

Reason 98,301 why I love Mr. K.  When the oil company needs its ass whupped and the home warranty folks need to be strong-armed into fixing the ceiling that the plumbing leak destroyed, he asks me to deliver the whuppings. I accept, gleefully. Don’t mess with a nine-month pregnant woman whose crotch hurts.

It warms my heart that my boss is freaking out at the prospect of my two-month absence.  What keeps me awake at night is the fear that they might discover they can get along just fine without me.

My idea for fame and fortune is foiled. Foiled!

We’re to get snow during rush hour, but no one knows how much.  I’m wearing open-backed shoes today, so I’m pretty confident we’ll get at least four sock-soaking inches.

In light of the ever-decreasing number of clothes that fit, I decided on a drastic course of action.

The poncho.

Yes, yes, yes, I know. I KNOW.  There are extreme opinions on the time of the poncho being more over than Ashlee Simpson, but cut the nine-month pregnant woman a break here.  It’s the poncho or the vastness of fish-white belly that no shirt can contain. I’m only thinking about you.

To be fair, it’s not a completely putrid specimen.  It’s a harmless pink and goes perfectly with the pink pin-striped black trousers that also, miraculously, still fit.  The only problem is that the thing sheds more than an agoraphobic cat in a room full of open doors. There is fuzz everywhere.  It’s on my pants and my shirt.  I’m sneezing it out of my nose, pulling long threads out of my eyelashes and fishing it out of my decaf snickerdoodle latte.  What the hell?  I pull the thing over my head (successfully covering my head in pink fuzz) and peer at the label.

100% acrylic. I’m so ashamed.

In other news…

Things that are making me happy this morning:

Featherbeds.
Dunkin’ Donuts decaf.
Oatmeal with blueberries and brown sugar.
My husband puttering around the house.
Heated seats.
The first snow flurries of the season.
The Karmite’s hiccups.
Turtleneck sweaters.
The day before a holiday weekend.

What’s making you happy today?

It’s only half-way through the work day and I’ve already had two doctor’s appointments.  First, a trip to the skin doc to have my Andromeda galaxy of freckles and moles examined and to have a few choice offenders cut off.  This is an annual ritual and usually isn’t a big deal.  I think I’m up to double digits in the scar department and nothing has turned out to be dangerous.  This time, however, was going to be a bit dodgy.  One of the moles was perched on a, ah…well, delicate location.  Someplace I can no longer see over my enormous belly and, since I can’t see to avoid it, ends up in gratuitous horror movie bloodletting every time I shave.

I had the hardest time trying to describe the area to the receptionist over the telephone. What the hell do you call it?  Cute or clinical?  General or exact?  Can the attorney across the hall hear this conversation?  And what would she call it?

Argh.

So three needles, a sharp and shiny object followed by something else that caused an alarming amount of smoke to issue from my nether regions, I am free to shave with abandon. After 10 days of wearing a band-aid on my crotch, of course. Hot.

I also had a two-week girlie-doc check-up in which everything was reassuringly and boringly fine and no one asked to see my crotch. And thank god for that. But there was talk of perineal massage and cervix *gack* ripening agents.  Blood pressure is great, size is right on target, heart rate is 148 and somehow I managed to lose 1/4 of a pound somewhere. Which, considering my recent consumption of bite-size chocolate bars… the hell?  Annnnnnd that brings my total weight gain up to 45.75 lbs.  (counting that 1/4 loss).  I’m convinced at least 10 lbs of that is water….trust me, my feet and ankles, they are not pretty.  Mr. K gets a kick out of pressing on them like Silly Putty to see how long it takes the indents to go away.

This is how we get our fun these days.  Why go out on the town when you can stay home and play with Karmajenn’s Amazing Morphing Ankles. Wee.