(Yes, I'm procrastinating on that entry about Clomid and fertility so you get this intead.)

YOU KNOW YOU READ TOO MANY BLOGS WHEN...

You notice the little "YUCK!" face next to "birthin' stuff" on a bottle of carpet cleaner and immediately think, "Oh man, some homebirther is gonna be PISSED about that."

YOU KNOW YOU'RE THE BIGGEST ASSHOLE AT THE TWELVE OAKS BARBEQUE WHEN...

It's free-range ketchup!

YOU KNOW YOU SPEND TOO MUCH TIME WITH TODDLERS WHEN...

A transcript of the most interesting conversation I've had all week:

Amy: Hey Max!

Max: Mama?

Amy: Mama went bye-bye for a little bit. But you get to stay here! And play with me!

Max: Mama?

Amy: Bye-bye mama!

Max: Mama?

Amy: Um, I'm not sure how else to explain this, sweetie.

Max: Dada?

Amy: Nope, also not here. But I'm here! Amy is here! Amy is your girlfriend, right?

Max: Shoes?

Amy: Your shoes ARE here. Yes.

Max: Shoes?

Amy: Yes. Those are nice shoes. You want me to take them off maybe?

Max: Uh-oh!

Amy: No uh-oh! Everything is fine! I am here. Your shoes are here.

Max: Shoes?

Amy: Aball?

Max: Mama?

Amy: Uh-oh.

Max: Hmmph.

Amy: So we understand each other then. Good.

all your aball are belong to us

Not pictured: about a dozen more aballs that have been lost under the couch or behind the fridge or rolling around somewhere in the car and are gone forever, or at least until the moment we buy him yet another aball and then they will all reappear simultaneously, organized and dead set on an uprising.

When Cooler, Non-Toasted Heads Prevail

So I was thinking -- randomly, apropos of NOTHING RESEMBLING REAL LIFE, I SWEAR -- that all those electrical and fire-safety videos and campaigns they make you sit through in elementary school aren't actually because they're worried about children and bathtubs and hairdryers and random floor puddles, but it's because they know that one day, far in the future, some sleep-deprived parent will watch her child's waffle get jammed in the toaster and absentmindedly reach for the nearest fork, and suddenly the image of a dancing cartoon lightening bolt will pop into her head, and she will put the metal object down and make some coffee instead.

HOWEVER, IN EVENT OF AN ELECTROCUTION, I'M THE ONE I WANT TO HANDLE THE SITUATION

On Saturday we went to a vineyard in Virginia -- yes, the one with the hill -- with some friends. It was waaay more subdued than last time, since we had Noah and two little pursedogs with us, and one of those friends -- this one right here, actually -- is knocked up.

And oh man, the assvice flowed like WINE, y'all, as I would not stop talking ever about babies and toddlers and this is what you do when this happens, and nobody tells you about the period that never ends and oh my god! Don't let your hair get in the baby's diaper when all your hair falls out, and oh yeah. All your hair falls out.

Then we had one of those awesome moments where all four adults -- capable, sober, college-educated adults -- were temporarily distracted by something during the exact second when Noah fell off his chair and hit the pavement face first. There was a collective gasp from EVERYBODY IN THE ZIP CODE as I picked Noah up and dashed...I don't know, far enough away so people couldn't throw food at me, where I tried to comfort him.

There was a little blood in his mouth -- obviously not enough to be coming from a lost tooth or anything, and he had no cuts or bruises. His wailing was strictly Pissed Off, You Negligent Monster (as opposed to I Am In Serious Need Of Medical Attention, Please Make Sure All My Aballs Go To A Good Home).

Jason, meanwhile, was losing his shit, just like he always loses his shit whenever Noah falls. The sight of blood in Noah's mouth clearly meant something terrible had happened, like fourteen lost teeth and brain matter leaking from his gums and he was scolding me for picking Noah off the ground in the first place without first determining whether his neck was broken and then he tried to yank Noah from my arms so he could create a full-body cast out of the picnic blanket, and that's when I wondered what the hell kind of first aid video they showed HIM in elementary school, because seriously, I remembered the rapping band-aid and he was telling me that Noah was just fine, yo.

Noah, his teeth and his beloved turkey baster are all okay, obviously.

We bought Jason his own bottle of wine and then he was okay too.

(Gratuitous photo overkill, yes, but what are you gonna do about it?)

a BALL! a BALL! BALL BALL BALL etc.

Believe it or not, I have real thoughts. And opinions. About things! And I would like nothing more in the world than to spend some time putting these thoughts and opinions (about things! actual real-life things!) into words. Sentences even.

But Noah won't take a nap. He screamed in his crib for a very long time, and when I poked my head in to make sure everything was okay he put his arms out for me and did this breathing-in sobby thing, and I am sorry, but YOU try being a Nap Hardass when YOUR kid does the breathing-in sobby thing. I'm out.

So instead of my words about things,* I present a few of Noah's words about things.

Noah Talks from amalah

(We really have unpacked all the boxes, more or less. That's our new patio furniture (from Target, of course) that was just delivered this week. Okay, maybe last week. Okay, maybe you just need to quit with the judging right now.)

*Things that may or may not include whether we should do Clomid again and/or just how much turkey bacon one person can consume in one day before it's considered excessive.

Blogzillas

Last night I attended my very first book-launch party. No, I did not write a book. Someone else wrote a book. And then someone else decided that inviting social dorkwad idiots like myself to the launch party  was a good idea. (Bloggers. We're ruining ALL the best parties these days.)

So. Let's recap the evening, shall we?

5:00 pm Okay. Jason will be home in a half hour to drive me to party. And pick up Bunny, who I am dragging as my plus-one. Plenty of time to put on pretty new dress, some makeup and pull hair into easy half-up, half-down, pulled-back-bangs look.

5:01 Notice red scaly patch of eczema-like rash on cheek. Random! Weird! Apply lotion and plug in curling iron.

5:04 Remember to turn curling iron ON. Whore.

5:05 Notice red scaly patch on cheek has morphed into some kind of angry red hive. Itchy. Ignore.

5:06 Start curling hair. Achieve perfect half-up, half-down, pulled-back-bangs style on first try.

5:07 Remember dress has to go over head. Dammit.

5:10 Notice hives all over neck and chest. Dying? Ignore.

5:20 Hair not cooperating. Each attempt at half-up, half-down, pulled-back-bangs style getting poofier and ridculouslier than the last.

5:21 Apply makeup. Hive on cheek practically glowing in dark and developing opposable thumbs.

5:28 Put on awesome shoes that Bunny patiently approved on Monday's playdate when I carted eight pairs of shoes into living room and made her see how each and every pair looked with pretty new dress, which I also made her approve at the store. Wonder if I maybe get on her nerves a little bit ever.

5:30 Check on Noah, who has wandered away from the television and is in the backyard. Bad television babysitter, bad!

5:34 Jason arrives. Collect child from backyard, purse from under couch, head out to car, trip and eat it on the pavement.

5:45 Pick up Bunny, who emerges wearing a perfectly executed half-up, half-down, pulled-back-bangs hairstyle. Whore.

6:00 Arrive at party, which is taking place at Ralph Lauren. As in, Ralph Lauren The Store. Where there are clothes. Expensive clothes I cannot afford.

6:01 Expensive clothes I cannot afford + me + high heels + wine + social dorkwadocity = oh, fuck.

6:02 Wine.

6:03 Bunny and I cower in corner by some polo shirts.

6:05 We discuss what kind of reaction we'd get if we each grabbed a nearby mannequin and made them fight each other.

6:10 Wine.

6:11 Oh look! There's champagne! Can I have that too?

6:15 We notice two girls hovering nearby and wonder if we could try to make friends.

6:16 "But what do you say?" Bunny wonders. "Hi! Wanna hold hands? Wanna make out? DO YOU LIKE MY SHOES CIRCLE YES OR NO?"

6:20 The girls wander away, probably to talk about the two snobby girls by the polo shirts.

6:22 Catch glimpse of legs in mirror, count fourteen bruises in about three seconds. Sexy.

6:23 Red hive on cheek still there, is now walking upright and upgrading my RAM.

6:30 We decide to wander into the back room where the author is signing books.

6:31 We back out of the room in terror, since it appears the party has been segregated into the Thinnest and Most Gorgeous Women Ever Who Also Wear Chanel Couture and...the rest of us.

6:33 Bunny asks me to explain for the millionth time how exactly I got us invited to this?

6:35 Whatever. The front room is where all the wine is.

6:36 It occurs to me that I may be the only person eating the twee and delicious bite-sized hors d'ourves, and also that I am okay with this.

6:37 - 7:59 Wiiine. Blleee! Blooog! Shooes. Sssbaby. Talk talk talkity am brilliant witty thin. Also probably can fly. Wheee!

8:00 Party over. Gift bags. Bunny and I head out to go eat some damn pasta and cheesecake. I think I cry at some point over something. Possibly when there is no more cheesecake. Hail cab, sucessfully navigate our drunk asses home.

7:30 am Wake up, filled with vague sense of a headache and that I embarassed myself in front of the wife of the guy from the Thievery Corporation because she's probably a little sick to death of the goddamn Garden State soundtrack, and also that I accidentally gave the cab driver bad directions back to Wisconsin Avenue. I hope he is okay.

Edited to add: Hey look!

Sunglasses. On the top of my head. ALLNIGHTLONG.