Oh. My. Sweet. Fuck. KILLMENOW.

Second thought, upon realizing that only a select number of colleagues have my personal email address, and I can actually concentrate on meeting said deadlines without being disturbed by the 46,083 urgent!urgent! emergency! haironfire! readmefirst! youhaven’tansweredthenoteIsent2minutesago! emails and projects currently hitting the wall of the dead server like a rotten tomato, which will all just have to simmer the hell down and wait until the server comes back up (when?  IT Magic 8-ball says BETTER NOT TELL YOU NOW. ALSO, WE’RE A TECH FIRM, WHAT WOULD MAKE YOU THINK OUR EMAIL WOULD BE FUNCTIONAL?)

SwEEEEEEEEEEET!

Of course, I’m going to hate life when the server comes back up and I’m checking 40 bazillion, increasingly irritated notes wondering where the hell I’ve been all day but, hey, let’s savor the moment, shall we?

In other news.  We built a garden!  With live vegetables and stuff! With our very own handsies!  And let’s pretend it was totally the original plan and not a ploy to avoid having to painstakingly rake, grade and plant the back of our yard with grass.

Let’s also just enjoy this small, 100 foot square plot of paradise (watermelon, squash and cantaloupe still to be planted) and ignore the weedy, verdant hell that borders the rest of the yard.

And let’s not talk about the strange smell wafting from the general direction of the kitchen, which is more than likely a mouse carcass trapped in the wall.  Or the dead mouse I found curled around Emerson’s wooden block.

And you know that obsessive tendency that some people have about pulling out their own hair?  We have a chicken like that.  She doesn’t want to talk about it.

That’s doesn’t leave me with a lot to talk about then, does it? 

Uh…my hair smells good. 

So when is it OFFICIALLY a problem?

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.

If you could, I don’t know, step away from the collective computers for three hours so I can Get Shit Done, I’d be much obliged.  It’s hard enough trying to pretend it’s 40 degrees with gale force winds outside, instead of the bright, beautiful 85 degree bliss that is happening two feet from my head. I can smell fresh-cut grass and it’s killing me.  So, seriously. I mean it. Stop.

Thank ye.

I saw them in Famous Footwear* and had giant wave of nostalgia for the wooden ones my grandmother used to buy me every summer. The other thing I remember about them were the blisters I always got, but who cared?  It was the late 70s and I was clopping all over Reading, PA in my super-fine, super grown-up (in my mind) bright red sandals.

*Note: They were $34.99 at FF and they are $28.99 at shoes.com AND free shipping?  I am in serious trouble.

.....

Look at that gag reflex.
He hates it.
I guess it must taste like ass, too.
Yeah.  Serious ass.
You can give it to him tomorrow morning.
No way.

Those were the notes I put together for the post I was going to write last night.  But then Dr. 90210 had to go and air back to back episodes of post-gastric bypass tummy tucks.  And I couldn’t. Look. Away.  Seriously, have you seen the enormous chunks of fat they saw off?  And don’t get me started on the belly button reconstruction.  I have nightmares about them, little slippery hot dog ends.  *shivers* Damn you, Dr. Rey.

Yesterday I managed to wrangle a work-free day, which Emerson and I planned to spend at the Philadelphia zoo with this lovely woman and her delicious son.  We got ourselves together, lunches, diapers, 3,893 spare toys for the car ride, and I miraculously managed to shower and put on something that resembled a real outfit.  Then I caught the traffic report on the radio – PA turnpike completely closed. Huge crash. Annnnnnnd those plans went out the window.

What to do with a free day?  The prospects were dizzying.  After careful consideration, what tender morsels of excitement did I choose?  Scrubbing vinyl siding.  Weeding flowerbeds.  It’s hard to keep up such a rock and roll lifestyle.  One thing I learned…if you simply can’t remember what underwear you’re wearing on a given day, just weed a flowerbed in the front yard and the truck drivers passing by are sure to provide a helpful reminder.  With a nice honk for emphasis. Pink. Thong. Yes.  Thanks ever so.

Speaking of pink, I love pink grapefruit.  So I buy it often.  The problem is, any grapefruit that enters this house is doomed to existence as a withered, yellow shotput in the fruitbowl. This aggravates Michael to no end.  If you’re not going to eat it, why do you buy it? My answer is essentially a lack of commitment.  The intentions are good, but the follow-through needs some work.  You see, there is only one proper way to eat a grapefruit.  It’s true. It must be peeled, meticulously manicured of white bits and stringy bits and gently broken in half. Each section must be separated by hand, lightly flayed by a delicate slice across the center, the delicate skins pulled back.  Only then may each section be enjoyed in all its pulpy goodness, the deflated epidermis of each section tossed aside like little grapefruit corpses. It is long and meticulous process.  Hannibal Lecter would be proud.  But full commitment is necessary, and the only thing I can dutifully commit to are new episodes of Heroes and weekly runs to Rita’s for Mistos. And I missed this week’s episode so…there you go (anyone see it?  What happened to Micah?  Do future and present Hiro duke it out and what’s with the soul patch, future man? Hello?)

Someone who has no issues with commitment.

Sometimes, a pink tiara is what it takes to get you through.

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.

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.