November 10, 2006
But first, an aside.* You people CRACK MY ASS UP. Over 220 comments about toilet paper, with the vast majority of you copping to major "over" OCD and a tendency to flip (AND FOLD) other people's rolls. Seriously, I had NO idea there was a "right" way to hang toilet paper. NO IDEA. It's like that time I read how when you make the bed, any pattern on your flat sheet is actually supposed to face the mattress, so you can "see" the pattern when you fold the covers back or something, and I just couldn't wrap my mind around that AT ALL, and still to this day make the bed wrong ON PURPOSE because I am a REBEL. I don't need your RULES, man. Our toilet paper hangs free and easy and in WHICHEVER DIRECTION IT CHOOSES.
And God help me, Flippy McOverNuts, I'll set up a webcam in there if I have to.
*Can it be an aside if I haven't actually said anything yet?
ANYWAY. The five of you who read the Quaalude Blog over at ClubMom already know my super-fun-exciting news from yesterday. As do the rest of you, I suppose, if you read the title of this post.
Yes, it's true. After many months of being, essentially, a friendless pathetic shut-in who was regularly scared off the neighborhood playground by insular groups of Spanish-speaking nannies, I finally got myself invited to a playdate.
Noah, clearly quite distressed about being forced to share his oxygen with another child.
I was so damn jazzed about this damn playdate that it was all I could do to like, not show up with flowers and a big heart-shaped box of chocolate. Instead, I choose to show up 1) late, 2) bearing the World's Crankiest Baby Who Was Suddenly Ultra-Aware of His Personal Space, and 3) a baggie of not-very-gummable crackers that I absent-mindedly fed to a baby who is not mine and only has two teeth.
Julie (who will henceforth be referred to as "Bunny" because she came up with that nickname after a Corona or two and I AM HOLDING HER TO IT) and her son Max (Baby X, whom I have full permission to exploit here on this website, despite not offering a single cent of ad revenue, HA HA SUCKAHS) were both very gracious hosts, providing hummus and pita chips and community sippy cups and the most demented plastic farm animals I have ever seen, Jesus Christ, they had RED EYES and a GOAT SATAN and at least I'm not the only mother who thinks pretty much everything brown and plastic is a rogue piece of escaped poop.
There was one case of Suspected Biting, but was later determined to be nothing more than Confirmed Drama Queening.
We listened to top 40 radio instead of Noggin and were both highly alarmed by some of the songs getting the dance remix treatment (James Blunt? Wot?).
There was a LOT OF FARTING.
The doorbell rang at some point and we both promptly freaked out because WHO IS THERE? I DON'T KNOW. OMG. SHOULD I COME WITH YOU TO ANSWER IT? DOES MAX HAVE A WIFFLE BAT? WHO IS COMING TO KILL THE HELPLESS MOTHERS AND THEIR CHILDREN?
It was the phone company. We're jackasses. But now we are jackasses TOGETHER.
Bunny: So you work from home? What do you do?
Amy: So I have...this...blog. And another blog. And...then two more blogs and I'm kind of a huge dork and...
Bunny: Are you going to tell the Internet about how I spilled my beer just now?
Amy: No! I mean. Yes. Probably. I'm just so thrilled that I didn't spill anything. *weeps*
You know it's been a good playdate when nobody is wearing pants by the end.
On Monday we are going shopping. If I can manage to stay cool and collected and not set anyting on fire? I do believe I might actually have a new friend.
*claps hand over mouth, goes all bug-eyed with internalized squee-ing*
*counts to 10*
*punches self in face*