...and nothing ever comes to me.
In the nearly six years that we've been married, we've never had a scale. I've wanted one, but I'm kind of a tightwad and don't like spending money on things we don't need. Unless it's chocolate. Well, any type of food, really; there's a reason James does all the grocery shopping.
James came home with a scale a while ago. It not only tells me my weight, but also my body fat percentage and my water percentage. Now, I don't really care very much about my weight by itself, but the body fat percentage is downright depressing. I've started drinking and writing emo songs. At least booze is fat-free!
The Child is obsessed with plastic bags. It's a shame they're so dangerous for babies. Give her a plastic bag, and she doesn't need anything else. I bet I could stick her on a bed of hot coals with a plastic bag in her hands, and she wouldn't even peep for hours, not even when she started starving. The Plastic Bag: the neglectful parent's dream come true!
She also started waking up super early out of nowhere about a week ago. I kind of stumbled around scratching my head about that one for a few days before: LIGHT BULB! It's getting light earlier. So I installed blackout curtains over her window. Well, I tacked a dark sheet and a blanket to the window frame (see above, re: tightwad). The dark green and bright red look lovely in her purple room. I'm surprised she hasn't had any seizures yet.
Also, we finally got a baby monitor. This is good and bad. Whereas before, I'd spend half the evening and half her naptimes dashing halfway up the stairs to investigate phantom cries, I now sit in my chair with my laptop, reassured by the quiet static of the monitor. And whereas before, I'd never hear it if she made little tiny peeps in her sleep, I now hear every single grunt and raspberry she makes. Her early weeks conditioned me so well that any noise she makes when she's supposed to be sleeping sends my stomach plummeting into my toes (anothersleeplessnightanothersleeplessnightanothersleeplessnight!). Ye Olde Knot O' Dread disengages me from whatever enjoyable activity I'm immersed in and yanks me into those first few weeks of dim, anxiety-ridden days and nights. Hurray!
But mostly it's a good thing. I can do stuff around the house in rooms where I couldn't have heard her cry before. Crap. No more excuses not to get the dishes done.
Maybe not a good thing.
And finally, we had a wicked snow storm yesterday. Two Tuesdays ago it got into the 60s. Yesterday we got 47 feet of snow, and I had a hair appointment an hour away. I was determined to go, however, and I spent the most terrifying hour of my life negotiating an unplowed Highway 18 with white knuckles and a squeaky bladder.
Alas, poor mullet! Ye be gone.
For the next, oh, week, I have fabulous hair again. Until random strands start sprouting at light speed while the rest of my hair trudges out my head as slowly as possible. I also have fabulous eyebrows again. I'm too lazy to stay on top of the plucking, so by the time haircut day rolls around, I look like Sylar from Heroes. I am not plagued by a hunger for braaaains or followed by ominous clocky-type music. Though that would be pretty awesome. The music, I mean.
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