I'm
waiting for my husband to come home with Popeyes. Again. Seriously.
And it's not funny because my midsection is on the rise still. Like
when the baby and I bike on the trail and he yells, "Go go
go!" that's what my belly is doing. "Go go go! Bigger,
more!" Oh, Popeyes. I hate you but I love you.
The
Olympics is tonight. Are tonight. I'm tivoing the opening ceremonies.
It's a good luck day! Therefore nothing can blow up or be blown
up.
And
tonight I'm drinking Southern Comfort and lemonade, which tastes
like college.
Here's
something fun: I've discovered the litmus test to tell whether you're
evil or cruel or hardened beyond repair on the inside. You're walking
or running or biking down the coastal trail and you see a baby in
a bicycle front-seat carrier coming towards you, he's facing you.
Do you smile and laugh and wave? Or do you stare at him, unblinking
and cold? If it's the latter, which is the category about 65% of
you (not really YOU, you) fall into, then that settles it. Definitely
no hope for you if you can't smile at a baby in a front bike seat,
who is probably even smiling at you, and you should just go off
by yourself and whittle twigs and wait for your teeth to fall out
and then die.
I
have two music TV shows to recommend to you: Later With Jools Holland,
and Live From Abbey Road. Set your DVRs and you won't be disappointed.
Also, buy the newest Elbow CD.
In
conclusion, today was the baby's first day of daycare, and somehow
he survived and I survived. But when I looked through the window
right before I went in the room to get him and I saw that he was
crying, and then he saw me and yelled, "Mama!" I thought
I would melt into a puddle and never regenerate. Daycare is hard.
