Second verse, Same as the First

So the school calls yesterday to tell me that Gerbson's dad has requested to withdraw him in order to register him at a different high school, effective Monday. And btw, did I REALLY just drop him off and abandon him????

Good gravy. Clearly, the revisionist history has begun. I expect by Monday, the tale will grow to include guns, knives and lampshades made of human skin.

And yet, maybe this IS what he needs to get himself together? Being out of his current school is an excellent thing - that was going to happen anyway - and away from his current peer group. Many of them seem to be making consistently poor choices and getting themselves into increasingly more serious trouble.

I am having a very, very, very hard time with it. I am having a very hard time with the things my son said to me and the names he called me. I am really having a hard time with the knowledge that both of them are telling people that I threw my son out of the house. And packing his clothes and belongings is so hard.

I want him to come home. But I also want him to go to class, abstain from smoking pot and drinking, and apparently I can't have both. At least, not at this moment.

I am trying to tell myself that maybe this will give him the chance to get his act in gear with a fresh start.

Mostly though, I am trying not to think about it too much because its so damned painful.


* * *


Jacob finally cut his first tooth. To celebrate, he caught his first cold. He is one cuh-ranky baby.

10 lbs of crazy in a 5 lb bag

Dear heaven. My house hosts more drama than sweeps week on the daytime soaps.

The teenager is currently at his father's house, claiming to all that I have thrown his poor misunderstood self out of the house. Suuurrrre.

The short story is... I found out that he has pretty much skipped THREE ENTIRE WEEKS of classes. Three weeks, people. He was going to school... just didn't go to class once he got there. And then he flat-out lied to my face about it, even when faced with the hard evidence. So then when he figured out that I had him dead-bang... he got belligerent and cocky.

(note to self... figure out how to go back in time, find self as 17 year old, SLAP self and then go apologize to mother for ever being a teenager. Again.)

He got reeeeeeeeeeal cocky. Went-too-far cocky, in fact, and I hauled him up short. That apparently twisted his little pickle and he decided that he would rather live at his father's. And he called his father and told them that I was a crazy bitch and I was throwing him out. And then he threw some clothes in a bag & whaddya know. I drove him over there, hearing all the while what a crazy bitch I was. Also lazy. Also, I am a terrible mother. And did I know I was a crazy bitch?? Because I am a crazy effing bitch.

(Everybody SING!!! Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh gerbson's mom is a bitch, she's a great big bitch, she's the biggest bitch in the whole wide world, on Monday she's a... yeah anyway.)

Uh-huh.

This? This is why some animals eat their young.








Which reminds me. The night before all the Crazy started happening, I went over to mom's to have coffee. She has a bunch of cats, and the grey tabby, Oblio, is becoming quite the social animal now that the old bully cat is gone. Soooo friendly. He leaped straight into my lap and started rubbing against my face and my neck and my shoulders and Oh! Wasn't this cat happy to see me????

And then. And then. HE BIT MY BOOB. Kind of like honk!! rather than a serious chomp. But still! He bit my boob!!! And there was CAT SPIT on my shirt.

And my mother thought that it was absolutely hysterical and has been telling all the friends and relations. Seriously. I can't even get respect from a neutered CAT. I need to just hang it up.

When Kicking Butt... Aim For Someone Else

Ohhhhh mama. I came, I saw, I kicked major tuchus. Unfortunately, the glutes that got the most impact... were my own.

As I mentioned, Lunatic Me started my whirlwind at roughly 4am on Sunday morning. I finally waved the white flag and hit the showers (literally. I couldn't lift my arms above my head by then) at 10pm.

But by golly, I went down fighting the good fight. Or the anti-clutter fight. Or something.





And this morning, I was surprised to find THIS:

The one, the only, the Alpha Dude (accept no imitation! No, really... he's a hoopy frood indeed and I am pretty certain he knows HIS towel is.) said: "This gal can take normal every day happenings and present it in such a way that leaves you laughing, feeling her feelings or just sitting there saying, “Huh?” (note from Gerbil: Making People say "Wha?" and "HUH?" is my stock in trade. Bwah hah.). Always a pleasant visit. "

Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit. Thank you, Alpha Dude!

Now, if you get tagged, you're supposed to write a post with links to 5 blogs that make you Think but have not yet been nominated, link to this post so that people can easily find the exact origin of this prestigious award, and display the 'Thinking Blogger Award' if you want to.



Ok, now this is the hard part. I'm still pretty new to this here Blogging concept and I am still wearing wearing my Blogging Floogles, so to speak. (Floogles. Right. Those inflatable arm bands? Well, when they first came out waaaay back in... gawd. 1970-something or other.... they were called FLOOGLES. I am old. And I remember weird crap. Carry on.) So I am still finding blogs and most of them seem to have been tagged already.

I'd definitely have to pick Velocibadger at Pardon the Egg Salad... not only lots of cool stuff to read on the blog, but she reads just about as much as I do and and I have found a lot of really interesting stuff through her links.

Frannie at the T Family Syndicate. (Remind me to add her to my list over there. I keep forgetting to update it lately. Bad Gerbil.) I enjoy her posts and she is also married to an asian man (although my husband is Korean).

And there's Robbin at My Level of Awareness , which I stumbled on during the Blog Party a few weeks back. She GETS IT. And she gets it and tells it in a way that makes me stop and say "ME TOO!!"

Canape at Don't Take the Repeats. I found her blog through a comment she left on one of my posts. I read her posts and find myself going with her... she's honest and observant and expressive.

Catwoman at Canadian Thoughts in Texas. Dear lord, can she make me giggle. I love her sense of humor.


Picking just 5 was hard. Made easier, however, by the fact that most of the ones I am currently reading have already been tagged!! And if you're visiting my site and I haven't scared hell out of you (yet), drop me a comment or two somewhere so I can visit your blogs as well. Throw a Gerbil a rope, here. Expand my world. I need a road map (along with the two hands and a flashlight.)


Anyway.

In other news, Jacob has begun to deliver editorial commentary on meal selections by way way of GAGGING. A child after my own heart. For example, on the menu last night was Beechnut brand Turkey. He likes Gerber, mind you. But the texture of Beechnut is entirely different... after the 5th spoonful of the Beechnut turkey, he made a face. The 6th spoonful? He rolled it around on his tongue, stuck his turkey-coated tongue out and gagged fit to kill. And then gagged a second time and spit it out onto the tray of the high chair, finishing with a very very dirty look. I soothed his troubled soul with banana/pear/apples and all was right with the world again. Cross THAT one off the list.

And now I'm going to go make some coffee and begin the day. (As opposed to the Beguine. Somebody? Can you explain how to shut the Randomize feature off in my brain? It's giving me a headache.)

Later, Taters.

Housecleaning: Portrait of an American Lunatic

So I fell asleep watching TV. I don't even remember what I was watching but Third Watch was on when I woke up at 4 am because I heard the baby crying. And I was off that bed, down the hall and staring, quite confused, at an empty crib before I woke up enough to remember that Husband and Baby were in MARYLAND and the baby I heard was actually on the TV.

Do not underestimate the power of Mother Hearing.

The adrenaline surge that propelled me down the hall was enough to guarantee that I wasn't getting back to sleep so I made coffee (wisely used the COFFEE MAKER today so as to avoid another scalding) and then got antsy (before the coffee, thankyewverramuch. Lets not forget the ADD.)

It is now 8am and I have:

• washed 4 loads of laundry
• done 1 1/2 loads of dishes
• Found that someone had broken ANOTHER of the tall drinking glasses (out of 16, I am down to 8. %$#@*!!!)
• Wondered if I can still locate a matching set of these glasses?
• Decided that 6am was too early to care
• Decided to winnow through all fabric in my house
• bagged 5 large trash bags of stuff to be purged
• cleaned one bathroom
• decided all bathrooms need to be bleached
• discovered I have no bleach
• made pancakes
• accidentally grabbed the giant clear plastic bottle of SOY SAUCE instead of the clear plastic bottle of pancake syrup. (Costco strikes again! Do we REALLY need THIS much soy sauce???)
• cussed
• Realized the fridge needs a good scrubbing.
• Spot-treated the living room carpet
• Spot-treated the dining room carpet
• Asked myself why I just wasted 15 minutes spot-treating carpets when in 5 years I have not been able to remove the stains left by the previous occupant??

Folks, I am beginning to scare myself but am reluctant to stop now. Imagine what I can accomplish before NOON at this rate. I have already called my dad about bringing over his truck & trailer a little later because we are making a dump run or my name ain't GERBIL. I have been asking for this to happen for months and by golly... I've run out of patience and a forthcoming move is an EXCELLENT reason to get rid of all this crap we don't need. There's a gazillion items that are going to goodwill, and the county dump also has a dropoff point for stuff that's too good to throw away but Goodwill won't take (they're picky here).

Then... I'm going to Home Depot. (If I could possibly paint this entire house this afternoon, I'd do that too. )

It's spring, its time to kick some ass around here.

Who spray-painted our sidewalk?!?

SOMEbody spraypainted something with black paint. Although they put down a piece of newspaper, it was not enough, and there is a nice black spraypainted outline there on the sidewalk... in front of OUR townhouse.

What the heck??? T'wasn't us... we don't even own spray paint. And why OUR sidewalk???



This morning started with a bang. Or a splash, followed by a squeak of shock and surprised pain. Followed by a "Son of a BITCH. "

Ever see one of those Melitta one-cup cone coffee makers? You set the plastic cone thingie on your cup, put the filter & coffee grounds in it, pour boiling water in it and whammo - a single cup of coffee. I've had it for years, works fabulously for making just a single cup. (Duh. That is its purpose after all... I AM Captain Obvious, thankyewverramuch.)

So, its the wee dark hours of the morning & I'm groggier than usual, as the baby woke a few times during the night. Plus, the teenager had Saturday detention, (thanks to forgetting to turn off his cell phone in class & having dumbass friends who call at 10am and teachers don't generally appreciate being interrupted by Young Jeezy ringtones) and I was not looking forward to hearing the complaining about that.

So coffee was DEFINITELY on the agenda.

Too bad grace and coordination weren't. Because I saw the contraption start to tip, and what do I do? Reach out to catch it. Sure enough, 16 ounces of boiling water & coffee grounds spill over my hand and down the front of my Klassy voluminous cotton granny nightgown (hey... the rest of me was amply protected by yards of fabric. So there.) and allllllllllllllllllllllllllll over the counter, the cabinets and the floor.

My first thought, naturally, was "ow. Ow! Hey! OW!" and the second, as I'm running my scalded hand under cold water was "Dammit, I wasted all that COFFEE!!" Yes, I have MY priorities in order, don't I?

And then I marched my coffee-covered self upstairs, where I tried to figure out how to get coffee-encrusted nightgown off without getting grounds in my hair. (wasn't possible). And while I was doing that, I lost my balance and fell over and woke up my husband. And that was the sight that met the poor man - a grumbling, coffee-encrusted, tangled, flailing chick. You know it can only get better.








We signed the new lease today - move-in starts on the 16th. WOOOOOOOOOOOT.

Testosterone Poisoning

Yeah. My older son is entirely black and blue this morning. Apparently, he fought this kid - doesn't know his name, doesn't know where he lives, all he knows is "he had a beef with me last year and we settled it" - last summer for no clear reason other than that teenaged boys can be absolute idiots. (Especially in this neighborhood. Hoo-boy)

And apparently the kid wanted a rematch, so he & his cousin took a little jaunt down to our street yesterday afternoon to confront my son. And like dueling "gentlemen" of yore, they discussed their terms and chose their location (down the hill behind the houses so as not to disturb anyone. Can you believe it??!? Considerate morons.)

Aaaaand the three of them proceeded to fight. My son insists he won (I bet that's what the other two are saying as well.) His arms are swollen and bruised from blocking and he has a huge contusion on his back where one of them kicked him and he's covered with scratches and more bruises. He also insists that he'd be thought of as a GIRL if he hadn't fought.

Uh... wrong answer to the WRONG person there.

And now I'm also ready to kill him because I am hardly trying to raise him to be an uncivilized buffoon, ready to swing a fist any time anyone suggests it. I know he has a brain, I really wish he'd go back to USING it. Or at least... using it more than he currently does. Even I have to admit he didn't ALWAYS use it, as people who have known me for a while can tell you. This kid is infamous for some of his not-thinking escapades...

Wonder what joys will await me when I get home TONIGHT???

But I'm about to fix his wagon, oh yesssss... we're going to my mom's farm for Easter and he's going to pitch in on my aunt's farm while we're there. I do believe there's three chicken & duck houses that will need to be cleaned out and there is NOTHING like shoveling chickenshit for 8 hours to make you hate your life.


Anyway, we dropped of the application for the house yesterday and learned there'd been another one submitted but those folks were rejected. So I am now cautiously optimistic... keep your fingers crossed. We gotta get out of this place.

And the No-Home-Training Trio struck again... as we are returning home from turning in the application, the roommate pulls into the court ahead of us... and parks in my husband's MARKED, reserved space. Naturally, my husband made him move, especially as we were trying to park ourselves!! Apparently, Roommate felt that since he was only going to be there 15 minutes, he shouldn't have to walk the 10 feet from his space.

And then the other two got home at ten and got into another argument outside on the sidewalk. I restrained myself from turning the hose on them.

I thought pregnancy hormones were bad for my attitude... but these three are really doing a number on my sweet & cheerful demeanor.




Ok, not even **I** could say that with a straight face.

What the Daddy Tomato told the Baby Tomato

Ketchup!

Catch up.

Er... right. Ya had to be there. Or here. At any rate, I managed to tell myself for two nights running "must log on and...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz". I woke up at 5am on the couch andI'm here to tell you that couch hair is scarier than bed hair.

Anyway. We have been pondering the idea of moving. More specifically, I have been ranting at every sign of noise next door that "I can't WAIT to get out of here. Can we move now? I'll live in a box. I don't care! Well, I DO, but I don't want to go to jail for oh, say.... feeding them their stereo. As a suppository. SIDEWAYS."

(Ok, my neighbors are annoying but they do not pee on my porch, I will give them that. See That Chick's blog for reference... and a handy lesson in perspective for me. )

So I found a listing yesterday for a single-family house and the price seemed good. Almost TOO good, considering the neighborhood and it was a 4 bedroom house. I immediately called the agent and his assistant and the assistant again and the poor assistant ONE last time to schedule a viewing for last evening. (You may call me a crazy, stalking nutcase, I prefer persistant.) And then changed back into work clothes, jewelry and pantyhose for this occasion. Even added some perfume. Husband was giving me a bemused look and he was probably thinking "hell, she doesn't put this much effort into going to work!". But I certainly don't want to give the agents the impression that I am willing to live - or could be CAPABLE of living in - a cardboard box.

I have these weird paranoid moments sometimes.

At any rate, he was grumbling about an extra 20 minutes on the commute... until he saw the place. Did I mention the golf course?? Did I mention that my husband is a Golf Man (I even see Big Break VI in my SLEEP at this point. Gah. )??? Plus the parks and lakes right there in the development. Very family-friendly. AND... (we keep coming back to this part) the neighbors are far away. Ok, 50 feet or so. That's FAR in comparison to sharing a common wall with the no-home-training trio.

So we will be humbly putting our names in and hoping for the best. Please think good thoughts for a Gerbil. Does a Gerbil not Deserve a Break Today? I certainly hope so.



Also: Under Random Weirdness? Yesterday I was sitting at a red light. It turned green and I started to depress the gas pedal. Clearly I was not fast enough for the late-model Honda behind me, who honked and then zipped around me after we turned. When I stopped beside same car at the next light, I had to do a double take.

I was honked at..... by a NUN. True fact. Nuns got road rage. Or road irritation. Road annoyance?? Whatever. I was too slow for a nun.


And I close with a Very Gerbil Story, which actually happened to my sister.... but its funny.

She has a passel of cats. Big cats, small cats... 4 cats. And they loved these little fur-covered toy mice with the passion that only cats can show when they feel like it. My sister kept them in a quart jar... jar o' mice. And did those cats crowd around when she brought out the jar? Oh yes... the awarding of a Mousie brought on at least an hour of running, batting, leaping, mouse-chasing fun. They were Mousie Junkies.

Anyway. Fast forward to Easter and my sister was hosting a whooooolllllle bunch of guests who'd never been to her house. It was an old farmhouse, mind you, and the cabinets didn't close tightly. This is key.

So all the guests are milling around the living room when the small herd of cats comes thundering down the stairs and through the living room. The oldest cat apparently has a white toy mousie by the tail and the other cats are jealously trying to take it from him. The cats tear into the kitchen and the guests hear my sister shriek and all the cats come running back into the living room, where the prize is summarily dropped onto the rug for all to see.

What the cats have is NOT a toy mousie at all.

It is an OB TAMPON that they have cadged from under the bathroom cabinet and gotten unwrapped. And they are squabbling and chasing each other for possession of it, apparently thinking that it was a rather cottony mousie.

She has yet to hear the end of it.

Day of Rest, my left... er... never mind.

The neighbors apparently own but one CD. It sounds vaguely familiar but I can't place it... I'd LIKE to place it, however... straight up their left nostrils, in turn. Call me a curmudgeon, but I think I ought to be able to sit in my own living room without my back teeth vibrating from THEIR bass. And when you factor in that its the same song, on repeat, for more than 5 hours... I start to feel a little desperate.

I started by throwing a Nike at the wall. Followed by a paperback copy of The Devil Wears Prada and ending with a vigorous pounding, none of which could apparently be heard over their selected piece. I dug out my large portable CD player, set it against the wall and was all ready to strike back with my collection of various recordings by the Academy of St Martin-in-the-Fields (conducted by Sir Neville Marriner), only to find that I'd left the entire CD case at work.
Boo.

Luckily for all involved, the oblivious trio left about 10 minutes later and have yet to return home. I CANNOT WAIT TO GET OUT OF HERE.

Also, they have apparently opted to stop taking the dog for lengthy walks, and letting her simply relieve herself on the 3 foot by 4 foot front "yard". The only trouble is that A) she's a large rottweiler, B) the yard has a downward slope and C) all the dog crap is rolling down their barren yard when the wind blows and onto the sidewalk. No kidding. We don't have tumbleweeds in these here parts, we got rolling dog crap. Kuh-lassy. And no, they don't clean it up.




The husband's car was pronounced just-this-side-of-clinically-dead, with a transmission that was just about toast and five separate "Bend Over" engine codes popping up. He spent all Saturday at some dealer in Maryland, and I do mean ALL DAY. Left the house at 9am, got home at 10pm. He got the car he wanted, said he got a good deal, but I'm certainly glad I wasn't with him. I hate car shopping. HATE it. I'm not a huge shopper to begin with, but car shopping is the worst. And kind of shopping that takes as long as oh, say... childbirth? No way.

And then I nearly fried my Ameda. If you read the literature on the Purely Yours, it details how at no time does milk ever enter the tubing... except apparently when I'm involved. I was tired and not paying much attention to the dangerous vacuum that was being created... and finally when I did look down, both tubes were busy pumping milk back up out of the bottles and INTO the pump itself. I'm lucky I didn't electrocute myself (and what a way to go THAT would have been!). Always quick on my feet, I yank the power cord out, pull the tubing out and pour at least an ounce and a half of milk straight out onto my lap. I dried and swabbed as best I could and then just... hoped for the best.

Sure enough, the next time I went back to it, it didn't start up. All I could think was "How'm I going to convince my husband that I ruined a $200 piece of equipment with my BOOBS???"

Ever the optimist, I chose DENIAL as my course of action. Three times I tried to start it up and got nothing - not even a sad little whine - for my efforts. Finally, I admit defeat and call my husband to break the bad news... Just as I'm starting to explain that I broke the pump and how, I give it one last try.

And it started up. Go figure. I hemmed, hawed and I think I convinced my husband that I'd totally forgotten why I called, never mind, Jane-You-Ignorant-Slut. The poor man is used to me making no sense whatsoever to begin with so it couldn't have been too hard.

And the poor baby is teething pretty badly, making him grouchy and giving him an upset stomach. As he's got reflux to start with, its kind of like the mentos & diet coke stunt. Only it smells significantly worse. I'm on my 4th load of baby laundry today.

Its a good thing tomorrow's a work day, its probably the only way I'm going to get some rest.

Captain's Log: Stardate... no clue. Whatever.

Eh, I never was a Trekkie anyway although I DID purchase myself a stuffed Tribble at a sci-fi con (BaltiCon maybe?? I don't even remember) that I got dragged to waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay back in the day. I remember being really sulky about going, too, but I was the one who had a working vehicle. (Ok, I'll confess that we did name it the Kobiyashi Datsun because it was a no-win situation that kept changing the conditions on us. Look, some of my friends WERE Trekkies and sometimes that stuff just kind of seeps into your pores. They had to put up with me and my quirks so it all evened out.)

Anyway, where was I? Right. Convention. Anyway, I was really petulant about being at this con and I kept getting hassled by guys who thought they were smoooooooooooooth... their primary means of greeting females being to smack them on the butt. This really just frosted my pickle. There was a mall across the street from the con location and I trotted over to one of those Puppy King stores and purchased a weeny-beeny little kitten harness and leash and put it on my stuffed Tribble and NOW I had an Attack Tribble.

After I bounced the Attack Tribble off a couple of heads, I was left very, very VERY much alone. I probably embarrassed the living daylights out of my friends, too. I don't recall going to another Con after that one.




By the way, can anyone tell me exactly how I managed to break one of my toenails while I was sleeping last night???? I often smack into things, bounce off corners, etc, but this little feat escapes even me. You'd kinda think I'd have NOTICED that? Dang.

We went for the MRI last night. You know it was off to a rocking start when we get all the way up to the center in the pouring rain and heavy traffic and find out... THEY SENT ME TO THE WRONG LOCATION. Yes indeedy. I have a 6:45 appointment, it was now 6:37 AND I AM AT THE WRONG CENTER. I am supposed to be out near Fairfax hospital. Damnation and pickles.

I let my husband drive and I just grabbed the "oh-shit" bar and closed my eyes. (I am a really, really bad passenger.) We walked into the correct imaging center at 6:45 precisely on the dot.

They give me this snazzy green hospital gown (except it wraps around again and does not expose your tush to the public. ) and you get to hang out with a bunch of other unhappy looking, green-gown wearing people. So then the nurse comes rushing back, waving my chart. (Guys... fair warning: imminent discussion of Female Matters)

"This says your last menstrual cycle was February 14th!!!" (Well and THANK YOUUUUU for announcing it, Madame Tact)

"And?"
"Today is March 15!"
"And??!?"
"YOU COULD BE PREGNANT!" Popping sounds as all heads snap around to stare at me.
"No... I am definitely not."
"But you could be!!!"
"the answer there is Absolutely Not."
"But... but... Oh. Are you taking the Pill?"

WTF, here? I mean really, WTF??? (Clearly, I am not blessed with nurses who understand the value of DISCRETION. This is almost as bad as the nurse at the OB's office who called me back about some early-pregnancy spotting to schedule an "emergency" appointment and chose to bellow at me "AND ABSOLUTELY NOTHING IS TO GO INTO YOUR VAGINA!!!!!" Did I mention that I was at work at the time? Aaaaaand while not on speakerphone, she bellowed so loud that my co-worker heard her loud and painfully clear?? Allow me to just gift-wrap my dignity and hand it over, huh?)

Anyway, so now the entire room is waiting to hear my preferred method of birth control. You wanna know? You really wanna know?? It's called Having an Eight-Month Old Infant. Women, if you have kids, you know what I mean. I mean COME ON.

So I make the effort to smile at this nurse and say very slowly "I.... am NOT pregnant. My cycle is not 28 days. Its anywhere from 34 to about 43 days. Has been since I was 11. End of Story."

She was persistent, let me give her that. "well, we might not be able to do the tests!"
"Fine. Do a pregnancy test then, but you're wasting your time and mine."
"Um... we don't have them at this location."

I think I must have gotten that Look on my face because she turned red and said "Let me see what the doctor says!!" Oh yes, you just do that. (And I wished, wish, WISHED for my Attack Tribble, because if anyone deserved to be Tribbled at that very moment... it was her.) The doctor must have heard the whole thing, but I hear HIM say "Oh just leave her alone and get the IV started."

The MRI itself was pretty awesome. Ok it was loud. Ok I was in a tube. Ok, I was wearing a flimsy little green hospital gown. BUT. I was laying down and nobody wanted anything from me except to hold my breath a couple of times... for an HOUR. Totally worth it, although the injection of the Contrast stuff annoyed me. Still. Mmmmmm. Best rest I had all week.

And when I went back into the changing room to get dressed, I discovered that the person using the second locker really really really REALLY needed to look into the value of a good deodorant. The little room now had the overpowering smell of armpits. And we are NOT talking "lemony fresh".

We won't have the results back for three or four days. And I have to "pump and dump" for 48 hours because of the Contrast (I don't remember what they shot into me, sorry). It is killing me to watch my Liquid Gold go swirling down the drain, let me tell you.

But since I am dumping... and since I'd already pissed off the pancreas... I soothed my troubled soul with a Five Guys Bacon Cheeseburger when we got home.

And that was, without a doubt, the best fricking bacon cheeseburger I think I've ever had. It ALMOST made up for not getting to give the nurse an Atomic Wedgie. Almost.

Also:

I installed Jacob's new larger carseat on Tuesday. Some bigass brown Eddie Bauer model that I had to get professional help with because apparently I have the upper body strength of a geriatric weasel.

Jacob hates it. HAAAAAAAAAAAAAATES it. Hates it so much that he GROWLS at me, non-stop, from the moment he's strapped into it until we get to our destination and for up to minutes afterward. Growls like one big angry dog. Or a small angry baby. And I, being the Big Bad Mean, Law-Abiding, Sensible Mommy... make him put up with it.

Anyone taking bets on toddlerhood? I think after this week he's plotting a coup.