Wild, right? I keep straining to understand the lyrics, even though I know it's complete gibberish.
(Apparently this has been around for a while.)
This is one of my favorites at the moment. It's probably only funny if you've known someone like this or--horrors!--caught the same tendencies in yourself (I know I have, a little--a very little, of course).
I'm supposed to be packing right now for another fun-filled road trip; instead I'm sitting on the couch in my pajamas fiddling with the Internet. I manage to feel okay about this because at least I'm not sitting on my couch doing lines of coke.
Speaking of which, this baby? 2.0? NEVER STOPS MOVING. I don't know who is giving her the drugs, but it's like she's constantly high. Grace was given to bursts of movement, usually violent but pretty sporadic. This one, on the other hand, makes my stomach look like a bubbling cauldron all day long. If you're not into babies and stuff, it's probably a little creepy. In fact, I'm totally into babies and stuff, and I sometimes find it a little creepy. Any second now Sigourney Weaver will pop out from around a corner and shoot me in the torso before my little passenger can hurtle teeth-first out of my chest cavity.
So, packing. Yes. Last time, I spent a day packing and two days before that planning, and we ended up with way more crap than we ever needed. So, this time I'm going it in the usual manner: pack everything at the last minute, hope it all fits into one suitcase, and just assume we won't forget anything vitally important. I do have some laundry going. And a very short list (I stopped writing things down on it a few hours ago when something shiny flickered in my peripheral vision). There is that.
I really love making lists. In my mind, I'm a list-maker, a really organized person (if only I could stay focused for more than five minutes). And if I stick to them, they really are helpful. Problem is, my house is littered with half-made lists, some of which I can't even understand. Every time I clean around here, I find at least six scraps of paper like these:
-plastic
-tape
-drill bits
-wipe down radiator
-hair dryer
-8:00
-$3
And I stare at it for at least ten minutes before giving up on ever figuring out what Project I'd been working on that day.
There have been a lot of Projects lately. Nesting has been vicious this time around, probably because I'm stuck inside all the time while Wisconsin does its best to kill my soul. These Projects always start around the beginning of The Child's naptime, or when James gets home from work, or when The Child goes to bed. James likes the last kind the best because it means I try to drag him into it. Three nights ago it was clearing out the office closet and giving him boxes to take down to
Poor James. I'm either lazy, shiftless housewife who doesn't do anything, or I'm maniacally driven housewife who cannot stop moving, and oh, can you just give me a hand here for just a
Okay, it is time to pack. For real. I just heard a baby scream, so we may not get a three-hour nap today after all, and it's really hard to pack with an irrational dwarf-like creature bumping around the house behind you on your pant legs.
Maybe if I could convince Pregnant Brain that packing was a Project, it would get done faster.
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