(It's the Boston accent that really gets me.)

"Did he just say what I thought he said?"

"Yes."

"When did that start?"

"Just this morning. He picked up a bottle of lotion and called it that. He also says it to soda cans."

"Wow."

"Yeah."

"We should probably discourage that."

"I know, but not until I get him to say it on video."

ABEAH! from amalah on Vimeo

Prognosis Negative

People. I'm not pregnant. Please don't take this the wrong way, but oh, my god, please. Please stop leaving comments -- even jokingly -- on entries telling me I'm pregnant because I'm cranky or emotional or you know, have the stomach flu. I know when to pee on a stick and I know when there is no point to peeing on a stick because I just had my period six damn days ago and when you guys leave comments saying OMG YOU'RE PREGNANT I feel the need to disclose the fact that I just had my period six damn days ago. And thus I further alienate my three male readers and how the hell am I expected to land that lucrative Girls Gone Wild ad campaign with no male readers a lot of goddamned period talk?

I know none of you mean any harm with those comments, but they make me sad. (It's not you, it's me, if I may continue piling on the Seinfeld references.)

I guess I'm not so very at peace with our little plan after all, since hey! We came up with that plan a WHOLE MONTH ago and DAMMIT, I am not pregnant yet! Fuck you, plan!

Today, in the span of about three hours, I found out that two of my friends are pregnant again. They both have babies a month or two younger than Noah. I am ridiculously happy for both of them. (I actually knew my one friend was pregnant before she did -- her boobs have been looking spectacular -- but today my hunch was officially confirmed.)

I am also achingly jealous. And kind of surprised at that. I remember this feeling from before Noah...how I would close my office door after every pregnancy announcement at work so I could grant myself a quiet sob and a few minutes to compose myself. How one day I found out someone I really disliked was pregnant and I cried for a solid hour and told my boss I was sick and I went home and threw a glass on the floor on purpose just so I could watch it shatter into a million pieces.

And I remember how I was already a few precious days pregnant at the time, but didn't know it yet.

And because I remember that I keep pulling up my calendar and recounting the days, hoping to find a mistake in my math, hoping to find a reason to hope that maybe this week's moody funk and today's unsettled reaction is hormonal and ha ha, isn't it just so ironic all over again?  Crazy pregnant lady! Go eat some candy!

Nope. No chance. And no reasonable expectation to believe this cycle will go any better than my last one, which was a whopping 56 days long. (The period I mentioned in this entry turned out to be some random spotting on day 45. And of course I secretly thought OMG IMPLANTATION BLEEDING. See? It's like I've got a whole other comments section going on in my head.)

"It will happen when it's meant to happen," my newly-pregnant friend said sympathetically over lunch today. "It will."

And I do believe that. It's happened before. The ever-so-meant-to-be proof is upstairs napping peacefully. I think I'll take him to the park when he wakes up.

I'm just really bummed that meant to be doesn't seem to be right damn now. And also because the stick I peed on just for the hell of it while trying to think of a title for this post was negative and that was really pathetic of me and goddammit, those fuckers are expensive.

Paranoid Android

JASON: So. Anything interesting happen today?

AMY: I spent the whole day dealing with shit.

JASON: Ooh, was there some kind of Internet drama?

AMY: No. Like actual, physical shit. I spent the whole day dealing with feces.

JASON. Ooh, Noah?

AMY: Well, yes. Noah kept saying he had to go apoopoo but wouldn't go on the potty and he wanted to watch the Potty Time With Elmo video 14 dozen times and then Max pooped in the office twice and Ceiba crapped on the stairs.

JASON: Uh.

AMY: Yeah. It was an enriching day. I do good work.

***

I've been in a bit of a cranky funk this week and feeling immensely sorry for myself for no reason at all.

Well, okay, unless you count this as a valid reason for funkitude:

Of course, after cursing the coffee maker out for RISING AGAINST ME, FOR MAKING EVERYTHING WORSE, I realized I'd forgotten to put the inner plastic basket thing in before the filter and thus this was all my own fault but COME ON, I was still totally ready to cry about it.

Or, you know, grab a straw and suck that shit up off the countertop.

Same thing with all the pet poop. Max, in a fit of old age and/or belated moving-related rebellion, has decided he will not use his litter box if it is not P-E-R-F-E-C-T-L-Y clean. Which means I must scoop it out after he goes EVERY TIME and sift it and add fresh litter EVERY TIME, or else he relieves himself six inches to the right of the box. As I am extremely lazy and forgetful and also trying to prove a point that he's being ridiculous, just CRAP IN THE BOX ALREADY, he's been having a lot of accidents.

So I clean it all up and always manage to spill litter on the floor, and then I grab the mini-handvac thing and of course, it's never fully charged because I am extremely lazy and never remember to charge it, but at the time I am all, WOE IS ME and *SHAKES FIST AT THE HEAVENS* and that's when I punch myself in the face because dude, it's some kitty litter on the carpet, get a damn grip and call the vet already.

(Seriously. Can you believe this is the most interesting story I've managed to come up with all week?)

(Does your brain itch as it atrophies? Or is it more of a stinging-type sensation?)

Several months ago I blamed a similar funk on the weather. Which is completely gorgeous right now. Except maybe it's a little too hot, plus there are mosquitoes, and I get a sinus headache from all the fucking grass and nature and shit.

Basically, hi. I'm a whiny little bitch who is never happy. Also probably on the rag.

But look! Here's some baby beefcake.

(Hey. Anybody want to join my little ray-of-sunshine ass for a Top Chef open thread tonight at the Mamapop forums? It'll be just like you're sitting in my living room, except you don't have to put up with me asking for foot rubs. Also sometimes I get a little gassy after dinner, so yeah. Forums are totally the way to watch TV with me.)

(Also, of COURSE it was reaction number 3. What kind of mature human being do you people take me for?)

Not that I'm keeping score or anything, at all

Saturday morning. Am in shower. Suddenly hear Noah wailing just outside the door. Jason enters, looking white as a sheet, holding our screaming red-faced pissed-off child.

"He fell down the stairs. I was RIGHT THERE and he just...fell all the way down the stairs."

POSSIBLE REACTIONS, GUESS WHICH ONE REALLY HAPPENED:

1) Jump out of shower, assess physical state of child, apply mama-type comfort and kisses.

2) Trust husband's judgment that child is okay, apply wifely-type comfort that these things happen and I understand, you know how I understand.

3) Pump fists in air, shout "YOU FAIL! HA HA," attempt Gob's chicken dance from Arrested Development, almost slip and break hip in shower, shout "IT WAS WORTH IT" at slammed bathroom door after regaining footing.