If you were telling a story and needed a quick example of something scary to yell that people would run and hide as a result of, what would you yell?
"Fire!"
"Terrorists are attacking!"
"Ooh, a Full House rerun!"
All those are acceptable responses. And yet. And yet. When I was faced with coming up with a scary scenario example a few days ago, do you know what I yelled?
"THE REDCOATS ARE COMING!"
And then I dove and took cover.
***
Last night BK was saying something about what if one of us was dead, and I said, "Don't talk about that. I hate thinking about dee-aye-tee-cee-ach."
DATCH. I spelled DATCH. I tried to spell "death," but instead I spelled DATCH.
I don't think this can be blamed on hormones and more. I think I just need to come to terms with the fact that I'm getting dumber every year, and that my 8th-grade self would lap my current self's ass in Jeopardy.
BK won $1900 in the lottery this weekend. How 'bout them apples? I figure by the time he pays taxes on his winnings next year, he'll have just about broken even over a lifetime of buying tickets. Can you tell I don't consider the lottery to be a sound investment of one's money? When I asked him what he was going to do with his windfall, BK replied, "I dunno, put it towards loans I guess." I think he was kidding. Let us hope that a mad comic book shopping spree looms in BK's future. Wheeee!
Speaking of taxes, our little tax refund peed straight up into his face when I was changing his diaper last week. Pure comedy GOLD. Later on that day I was sniffing the top of his head and was shocked to find that instead of the usual sweet baby smell, I was smelling some funk. Oh, right. Urine in the hair = bad smell.
I'm not sure what made me do it, but I Netflixed Sophie's Choice last week and we watched it Saturday night. JESUS CHRIST. Have you people seen this movie? Fuck. When they say that having a kid is like wearing your heart outside of your body, they're not kidding. Back in high school, when I was all into watching "deep" movies, I probably could have sat through Sophie making her choice without batting an eyelash, but post-Baxter, I totally lost my shit.
What do you think the chances are of me hauling my baby to Rio, internets? Apparently BK's working on a case that has him taking depositions world-wide, including Brazil. Brazil is on my list! Towards the top! Right below Egypt! But oh god the baby crap-hauling through the airports. It makes me faint just thinking about it. WWTGFID?*
Finally, I am all for civil servants getting a break here and there, but this whole no mail on Saturday or today Presidents' Day nonsense is putting a serious cramp in my now full-fledged Buffy addiction.
* What would the girl from Ipanema do?
BK: This rice cereal tastes kind of sweet.
Me: You tasted it?
BK: Yeah.
Me: You know that's made with my breastmilk, right?
I just spent an hour turning my house up and down looking for my compact flash card reader. AN HOUR. I'd be damned if that little piece of plastic was going to best me. I looked on every flat surface we own. I looked under every piece of furniture in case Joshua Wanat had batted it off the table. I looked in the trash. I looked in the chinese delivery bag IN the trash. I looked in the couch cushions in case Buster had decided it was a chew toy and had devoured it and hid the evidence. I looked in the baby toys in case my brain had labelled plastic therefore baby toy. I looked in the trash AGAIN.
And there it was, with a 256MB card still in it.
I'm telling you people, if you need to retain your intelligence, don't have a baby. Cause they suck the smarts right outta you. No wonder breastfed babies had higher IQ scores in those tests -- right from your brain and out the boob into their brain.
This morning BK invited me to breakfast at the Waffle House, his generosity spurred on by the guilt of not getting home until 12:30 last night. Salient details for your mental image of the scene include BK having the bacon and eggs (over medium-well) and buttermilk pancakes, and me avec the ham and cheese omelette and grits. So there we are, breakfasting and getting our morning poos on thanks to the Waffle House's house blend, and BK says, "So last night I was thinking about what we should do if someone broke into the house."
Uh, ok.
Apparently I should grab Baxter and run out into the backyard and start screaming. When I pointed out that our gate is padlocked and that we'd be trapped back there, BK reconsidered and offered up the following as Plan B: "OK, then you should grab Baxter and hide. Hide in the study closet. And take the phone with you."
I am really enjoying the thought of the perpetrator sliding open the study closet door to find me crouched amid BK's shoes and comic books, baby attached to one exposed boob to prevent him from crying and Revealing Our Location. Not that it would ever come to that, of course, since BK would have fought him off with the aluminum baseball bat he bought at a deceased neighbor's estate sale a few months ago expressly for that purpose.
I leave you with one more BK gem from the car ride home: "Hey, if you want something fun to do today, you could take my clothes to the cleaners."
