1st: I am so bloody fucking sick of the People Game. Trying to figure out through all the subtle clues just what the hell people mean. Beyond actual deception, which I have NO patience for, even those of us who want to be faithful to ourselves and honest must filter our messages to the world. "If I don't add an exclamation mark here, they'll think I'm dowdy." What does that even mean? I have not got the patience to explain it. I don't want to edit myself, but even more I don't want to have to sift through subtleties and nuances to figure out what people really mean.

Oh and also, I'm bloody fucking sick of fearing that I'm too needy. If people think I'm too needy...so be it. I don't want to change who I am to make friends. Even if I make no friends in the process, which often seems to be the direction I'm heading in. Or already facing.

2nd: I am so bloody fucking sick of wanting to write and not doing it. I'm too scared, and what does that get me? Nothing. So what if I'm not a good writer anymore. So what if what I produce is crap. It's better than producing nothing at all. And if I'm just a shitty writer, so be it. That's okay. As long as I'm a writer. And besides, the only way to get from Shitty Writer to Less Shitty Writer is to fucking do it and do it and keep doing it. To that end, I've decided to just fucking do it. Here is a fear of jinxing it, but at this point I'm more sick of being afraid than I'm afraid of jinxing it. So, I opened up the file of my last NaNo novel, which I did not come close to finishing, and am working on it again, and I was actually really pleased by a lot of it. Much is crap, of course, and I fear even the parts I am enjoying are crap that my crap radar is not picking up, but again I'm more sick of being afraid at this point, so I'm just going to look at the parts that please me and say, These please me.

On a good note: I have created the cutest child ever. He's looking at me right now with his big adorable blue eyes and milky drool dripping from his chin. He's been "dunking for cereal" in the bowl again. Leon has tought him to say 'Go Lakers!' and 'Kobe!' and I'm teaching him how to pee in the potty. We are parents. I want another baby. That will have to wait, but goddamn do I ever love the heck out of this little Porky.

thirty five inches
and sixty pounds--dear god!
just who will that be?

The Health Gods have spat upon me.

The damn cold (such an innocent, minor-league word) oozed its slimy, sickly way down my throat and into my chest. I start panting just walking from one side of the room to the other. I swear I smelled sickness wafting up from me the past few days, but I believe I'm on the mend.

Breathing is still a ridiculously laborious task. Who knew so much thought might have to go into an involuntary reflex? But at least the burning pain is gone when I cough and sneeze.

Speaking of health and fitness...

I finally had my Curves apointment today! Yes, it was scary hearing all those measurements they took of my flabbous body parts. Although their scale is on my good side. I now have written down my weight and inches goals. Good lord, are there that many inches on a body. Okay, I can swallow that one, but... is it really possible to have THAT MUCH of my body percentage be fat?? How am I managing to ooze my blubbery bulk from point A to point B? For that matter, as long as I can actually see the skin and bone that is there...how can there possibly be any room left for muscle?

This is ridiculous.

Here's to hoping this is the one. As my mother has reminded me, there is no failure in the falling down, only in the not getting up again. Think about it. So true.

*Let this be it let this be it let this be it*

As soon as I can exercise with a reasonable hope of not smothering myself in my own nonfunctioning lungs, I am so there.

While we're in this vein, I have a suggestion for a wonderful gift (and hey, right around Mother's Day too) for any of you moms (or dads, or parent-like figures) of moms (or dads, or any Stay at Homers).

A couple years ago for Mother's Day my own darling mother gave me this gift--a flowered card redeemable for one particularly hectic day of hair pulling when I could call her sobbing and she would come lift this most special burden from my shoulders and return him in the evening.

Ah, bliss.

I think I read the whole time. The best part was not having to consciously or subconsciously be aware 100% of the time of the little hurricane constantly swirling around the house bringing with it a wind of destruction.

Man, I love that little SOB.

So, what do you do when your adorable, precious, angelic little wonder boy spends the day requesting food be shoveled into his mouth at an abnormal rate, pooping every few hours, digging said poop out of his diaper by the handful, pulling all your worldly objects from every shelf and drawer in the house and strewing them about the floor while dismantling half of them, insisting on using grunts, whines, and cries instead of his 'gentle words', regularly throwing tantrums for no (or sufficient) reason, turning the cat's scratching post into a stool, turning the cat into a pillow (evidently requiring to be fluffed aggressively), and turning you into a twitching bundle of nerves?

Add to this a husband who works half the day, then comes home and sleeps. Throw in a few minutes of me trying unsuccessfully to wake him at the requested time, add a dash of toddler jumping on the bed, and a generous pinch of husband yelling at said toddler to leave him alone. Cool, ice with husband pushing toddler out the bedroom door and closing it behind him. Garnish with me left alone to wrangle the toddler alone (once again) for the rest of the evening. You may want to utilize toothpicks to hold the layers together because this is one h*ll of an unholy sloppy mess.

Also, there is an unhealthy amount of cat tail pulling going on around here.

Can you tell what recipe this is for?

Yes, you got it. *pat pat*.

Notice how quickly "adorable, precious, angelic little wonder boy" turns into "the toddler".

Poop on shorts, legs, feet.
Uh oh-- surprise on carpet.
Thought we'd got it all.

When oh when will you be potty trained, my love? I smell another stinky. I've found the next biological WMD in your diaper. Who knew a nuclear waste dumping site could fit in that cute lil wrinkly bumhole.