My TiVo Suggests Tylenol PM

Whenever a great big natural disaster or big tragedy-laden news story hits a blogger's general area, they inevitably get worried comments and emails from readers -- particularly if they haven't updated in a few days -- emails of  the "are you okay? is your house okay? is it on fire? washed away by molten lava? and I saw on the news that someone was shot at a mall that I think is near your house and they didn't give any names and omg, YOU WEREN'T SHOT AT HOT TOPIC, WERE YOU?" variety.

So let me just put your minds at ease: Yes, I have stayed at the Mayflower Hotel in the past, but I am in no way connected to the recent bust of the high-class prostitution ring here in DC. Thank you all very much for your concern.

MY ALIBI IS STILL PRETTY HEAVY ON THE SHAME, HOWEVER

So Friday night rolls around. We put Noah to bed, Jason is starting a fire and I'm settling in on the couch, ready to be a giant pain in the ass re: what DVD we will watch, because I hate everything in our queue and especially the three DVDs that came in the mail this week and I don't want to waaaaaatch theeeeem, I want to watch something difffffffferent, preferably something that isn't even out on DVD yeeeeetttt.

This is when I notice that the TV is already on.

"Oh GOD," I say, "is this The Ghost Whisperer?"

Jason turns away from the fireplace and says something like, "Oh, is that what this is? It's just what was...you know...on."

"Eh, let's watch last night's Lost before we pick a movie to argue about." I slowly aim the remote the TV, and...

"Wait! Uh. I don't...I mean...I'm not sure I feel like watching Lost right now."

By this point my own prime-time detective-show-worthy wheels were spinning, and I remember turning off the TV before dinner, and that the TV was firmly locked in NOGGIN toddler mode, so if Jason just turned it back on and left it on whatever channel it was on LIKE HE CLAIMED, we'd be watching Wow Wow Wubbzy right now.

"YOU WANT TO WATCH THE GHOST WHISPERER! YOU WANT TO WATCH IT ON PURPOSE!"

Jason vaguely threatens me with the giant tube of Duraflame matches but concedes the point, and that's how we ended up watching Jennifer Love Hewitt's three-foot-long hair and eyelash extensions on Friday night.

"Why is this show shot like a daytime soap opera, with the smeary Vaseline lens and everything?"

"My lands, man. We certainly are learning A LOT about your TV viewing habits tonight, aren't we?"

"Wait...are you crying?"

"Shut up. My eyes are watering. It's a pregnancy thing."

"You're totally crying."

"WELL? THE MOM GHOST IS REALLY PROUD OF HER DAUGHTER, OKAY? AND SHE COULD TOTALLY SENSE HER MOM GHOST'S PRESENCE RIGHT THEN AND THAT WAS A NICE BIT OF CLOSURE FOR HER."

"This is a pretty terrible show."

"I know. We should totally record next week's episode."

AND THEN! IT WAS SATURDAY!

Saturday night I did not sleep. At all. I stayed up for awhile obsessively listing the Things We Need To Buy For The Baby Before October OMG October! -- sample items include plain white onesies, pacifiers, an infant tub, bottles and holy crap bottles are different now because of the leeching plastic and I know we sort-of knew about the leeching plastic with Noah but stopped caring after I broke all the glass bottles we bought but now we totally have to care about the leeching plastic with this one and do you realize how fucked we are if it's a girl? we have nothing for a girl! everything is blue! the carseat is blue! the extra sheets for the Pack-N-Play are blue! I might be forced to put lacy headbands on her and YOU KNOW HOW I FEEL ABOUT LACY HEADBANDS.

After realizing that Jason was asleep and not listening, I went downstairs and watched the Grindhouse double feature until four five in the morning, and was overly interested in seeing when the cable would made the switch for daylight savings time. At 1:59 am the clock and channel guide jumped forward to 3:00 am and I sat up and fucking CLAPPED FOR THE CABLE BOX, like I was celebrating my own special little New Year's Eve, or something.

SUNDAY WAS PREDICTABLY BLEAK

I sat on the couch all day and watched 13 straight hours of Hell's Kitchen reruns while bemoaning my lack of sleep. At one point Jason turned to me and asked, "Did I hear you refer to this baby as a do-over last night?" 

"Probably. Sort of. At least in terms of the leeching plastic."

The time change effed Noah up completely, as he refused to nap all day, but then did a faceplant into his dinner and fell sound asleep at 5:30 6:30 I don't even know what time it was either. There were four contestants left on Hell's Kitchen at the time, though, if that helps.

HEY, LOOK AT THE TIME! MONDAY WAS OFFICIALLY YESTERDAY

Once again, I cannot sleep. I start to doze off, then wake up to pee. My skin itches and all my limbs keep falling asleep. And the thinking! God. I cannot turn off the goddamned thinking.

Noah is getting a cold, however, and keeps demanding that I go in and wipe his nose.

I am happy to oblige. There is just nothing good on TV right now.

Metadog

My god, this blog. It is astoundingly boring.

So. Very. Very. Boring.

It is not updated often enough for my discriminating tastes, either.

And this kid is much too old to be very interesting.

Not that all this pregnancy puking and hot dog binge talk is all that appetizing.

In sum, I am in ur charming family portrait, expressing mah disdain. Pfft.

Love,
OG Homie aka Ceiba!

Wednesday

So pretty much the only thing I can say about my life and accomplishments right now is that damn, I sure did eat a lot of hot dogs today.

Breakfast/Lunch/Dinner of Champions

So things have taken a turn for the queasy over here.

I'm not actually throwing up or anything (stretches a wan, weakened arm across the tiled bathroom floor to knock on the wood floor outside the door), but am instead walking around the house randomly gagging on air and smells and thoughts of smells and air that is full of smells and smelly smell smell smell.

The Coke keeps The Headaches at bay (I switched to Coke after discovering that coffee dry heaves taste like pine trees), and I'm about to tuck a sleeve of saltines into my (elastic) waistband and get a big dorky watch that beeps every 20 minutes to remind me to eat one. This was advice I got last time: keeping something in your stomach will actually keep you from puking.

I tried this last time. And the weirdest thing happened. I THREW UP. Food in, food out, taking the upward escape route. This (combined with some advice regarding "real" ginger ale vs. Canada Dry that we WILL NEVER SPEAK OF AGAIN) lead to a bit of Post-Traumatic-Assvice Syndrome that plagued the rest of my pregnancy. By the time we got to the c-section business, I was cowering in the corner, pleading for the Internet to leave me and my internal organs alone, pleassssse, there's Canada Dry in the fridge, just take it all and let me beeeee! I want to liiiiiive!

This time, the queasiness intensifies whenever I go too long without snacking. Snack snack snack. A couple weeks ago, this was awesome, what with the cookies and the brownies and the non-stop parade of cravings that felt so damn good to satisfy and I was probably about five minutes away from dipping pickles in vanilla ice cream or deep-frying some mini-marshmallows.

Now...it's pretty much saltines. Crunchy, salty, paste-y saltines. Mmmm.

In the interest of fairness and full-circle assvice redemption, I gave this theory another shot. Did I already say something about never speaking of this again? THIS TIME I MEAN IT.

***
In Child v.1.0 news, Noah has developed the habit of pressing his index finger on his lips while saying, "Hmmmm," and then excitedly pointing upwards and declaring, "I KNOW!"  Then he runs out of the room.

It may be the cutest thing ever, except that it is driving me absolutely bonkers, because WHAT DO YOU KNOW, CHILD? WHAT?  

And Angelina Can Bite Me

So the baby is only about four millimeters long right now.

But it's a really HUSKY four millimeters, okay?

Shut up.