Stream-Of-Consciouness is Not a Good Thing

I ended up canceling my appointment yesterday because Owen was running a fever and we had to take him to after-hours at the pediatrician.

"After hours" sure has changed context for me. Nowadays it involves a lot more of waiting in plastic chairs and a lot less slurred conversations. There was certainly no dancing to House of Pain or "hilarious" attempts to commandeer band instruments.

Owen will be fine. It's some kind of viral nonsense that will run its course, hopefully without infecting his baby brother in the process.

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My appointment is rescheduled for Thursday morning, and I hope that I'll cancel that one, too, because the numbness will go away. Right now, I'm blaming excessive yoga.

Really, that's the cause of most of the world's problems: excessive yoga. That's how we got into the gulf, you know. George W. Bush is crazy for the yoga. For that matter, that's why we're in this financial crisis: people were doing so much yoga that they bought homes they couldn't afford to build massive yoga studios. Did you know that Stalin, Hitler, Pol Pot, and Nero all loved the yoga? It's a little known fact.

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Paul thought he would save money by buying a whole chicken. He would cook it, and then we would use if for several chicken recipes throughout the week. The monkey wrench in this plan is that we can't make the recipes until we cook the chicken, and we can't cook the chicken until Paul comes home. I only cook meat when it looks nothing like it does in nature. I'm all over ground meats or boneless, skinless blobs in packaging. If it involves skin, bones, or sinew, I'm gone.

So, it'll be leftover bean soup for dinner again tonight.

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Wanna make my kid crazy? Sing or dance anytime, anywhere. He points his finger and says, "Mommy! Stop! Singing! Right. Now." No please. It's spoken with the same intensity in his voice as mine when I insist he gets away from the boiling pot or demand that he holds my hand in the parking lot.

Me not singing is serious business.

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My aunt is staying at a villa in Paris right now, seeing art and eating croissants. She'll be jealous to find out that I'm going to Delaware next week. Boo-yah.

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I think I'll name my tomato plant Elmer.