Ruminating Slav

Melted plastic flames of HELL

It looks as though the scores of loads of laundry I've done since Baxter's arrival have managed to kill our dryer. It no workie, and when I pulled the plug out of the wall to see if that was the problem, one of the prongs looks all burnt and crispy. THAT can't be good. Hopefully the nice man I found with the help of the yellow pages (old skool!) will be able to fix it this afternoon. Because I've got some onesies to dry.

I've discovered that DVDs of tv shows are perfect occasional distractions while WAHMing, and I'm currently making my way though the first seasons of Veronica Mars and Buffy (I know, I'm only about six years late to that party).

Update! The dryer man has come and gone, and lo and behold, it seems that we came pretty darn near to roasting in our beds. Apparently there was some sort of short that made the power cable so hot that it melted and stuck to the side of the dryer. Zoinks! This just underscores the fact that I am a Very Bad Person for constantly saying that we need to buy a fire extinguisher, but we never do.



Here's a picture of el babycito. Note that his cuteness is still legendary. He's all big and shit now, and rocking his exersaucer, although only his tippy toes reach the bottom. No sleeping through the night yet, but he usually only wakes up once for some chow and goes right back to sleep. I can live with waking up once for 15 minutes, easy peasy.



As always, more pictures of Bax can be found on flickr if you're of the baby-ogling sort.

TV has a new superstar, and he sells clothes at Target

Ok, so I haven't actually watched the Golden Globes yet because I don't stay up that "late" any more, but I did manage to TiVo through the red carpet coverage last night. I don't think the show itself could possibly provide better entertainment than Isaac Mizrahi groping ScarJo's boobs, inquiring about the status of Eva Longoria's pubic hair, and telling Charlize Theron that she's looked like an "ugly dyke" in her last few movies. That, internets, is television GOLD.

BK told me to do it

As we all know, as gentlemen get on in years they often begin losing hair on top and growing it in odd places where Hair Should Not Grow. Luckily, BK has a lovely, full head of hair, but is cursed with random Old-Man body hairs. Typical offenders include Pierre, that saucy little hair peeking out of your man's nostril at you (zoot alors!), and Claude, the mind-bogglingly long, pale-white ear hair that's oddly coarse and doesn't match any other hairs on your man's body. BK, however, will see your Pierres and Claudes and will raise you a baker's dozen Zekes. Who is Zeke, you ask? Zeke, my friends, is a nose hair. But not a normal nose hair that resides inside the nose. No no, Zeke and his brethren sprout from the top of the nose, creating a PELT of nose hairs, a little Zekey jacket for BK's fine proboscis.

Perhaps what I am about to tell you is TMI, but WTF, KWIM? Back in the pre-Baxter days of yore, if I had been a very good Slav, BK would reward me by allowing me to run and fetch the tweezers and would let me go Zeke Pluckin'. I was only allowed one or two plucks at a time, three at most, and I would treasure each Zeke like a gold nugget I had panned California's creeks and rivers for for months, holding it up to the light and marveling at its length and enormous onion-like follicle.

Sadly, those days are long gone and there is no time for mad dashes for the tweezers. Which is why, when snuggling up to BK last night, I spied a veritable forest of black hairs sprouting from the top of his nose. Aye, I have been neglecting my wifely duties in the bedroom. Kids, this is what happens after you have a baby. You never fuck pluck again.

The bald and the beautiful

I've been a mother for three months now, and right on schedule, my hair has begun falling out. Ah yes, yet another one of the glamorous secrets of childbearing They don't tell you about -- the fact that you start going bald at three months post-partum. On the bright side, this also means that Baxter is out of the fourth trimester, which makes him more of a baby than a fetus if you're measuring by amount of activity other than eating, sleeping, and pooping. Oddly enough, I am already somewhat nostalgic for his little meat lump self, for the way his saggy little body would droop over my hand like an old woman when I burped him back in the day.

My 2006 treat budget is gone

I kinda sorta ordered me a MacBook Pro yesterday.

I will love him and I will pet him and I will call him George.

Squirt and suck

Let us discuss the plague which has made its snuggly little home inside my body for the past two weeks now. I'm so done with it. Waking up this morning to discover that I've lost my voice just made me all the more done with it. Unfortunately, the plague doesn't seem to be getting the hint and is currently kicked back in my lungs and throat, sipping on a Bartles & Jaymes and watching Love Boat reruns.

The baby is now sick as well -- breastmilk antibodies can only ward off so much before they shrug and step aside. So now like legions of blogging mommies before me I get to tell you that to my child, squirting the saline up the nose to soften the boogers and then sucking them out with the Bulb of Death is on par with having layers of one's skin gently removed with a potato peeler. The only positive aspect is that the screaming makes his wee little nostrils flare and makes it easier to apply the Bulb.

Being an aspiring Good Mother, I went to Target yesterday to buy a humidifier to put in Baxter's room, only to discover upon bringing it home that it was missing a part. THANKS, Target. I would have gone to exchange it last night but was otherwise occupied watching the Longhorns win the national championship in one of the best football games I've ever seen. Total sweetness.

I've also discovered a musical preference in my boy -- he appears to share my shameful Randy Travis fixation. Truly, there are no limits to what this mother will do to keep her sick child smiling, including blasting Randy (as much as one can blast Randy Travis) on the iBook -- complete with iTunes Visualizer effects, oh-so hypnotic for a 12-week-old -- and singing along while performing an intricate dance routine throughout the kitchen. Just in case you think I've hit rock bottom (the cold rock bottom of your heart, natch), allow me to disabuse you of that notion -- I hit rock bottom a couple of weeks ago when, after getting home from the 8 1/2 hour drive from Mississippi, I had to (HAD TO) hold my inconsolable baby on my lap while pooing.

Now I can only sit around hoping that the loss of my voice does not mean I have laryngitis, because I overheard my pediatrician telling the father of the patient in the next room, the one with the St. Bernard cough, that laryngitis is the CROUP in children, and as any reader of Anne of Green Gables will tell you, you don't want to fuck around with CROUP.

Black-eyed pea wishes

Happy new year, chickens of the sea! I hope you are all feeling better than BK, who is moping about today cursing me for not drinking enough Veuve Clicquot last night -- he polished the bottle off and is now suffering from the dreaded champagne hangover. We have taken down the Christmas tree and returned all manner of holiday decor to the attic, and all that remains now is to return to the drudgery of everyday existence. Wheee!