Feats of strength

I know this week has been very up-and-downy for a lot of people.

Apparently Venus is in retrograde. Is the problem.

I heard this from a friend who got it from her yoga instructor. So my details, they are basically nonexistent.

But here we are. I so appreciated all your input on my downdown post the other day. I'm working on plan. Of life.

This makes me feel good.

And my sweetie boy is a sweetie boy. And the sun is shining. And Betty has snipped peonies from the front yard of the Mean Girls next door. They look gorgeous in our kitchen. Heh.

And the weekend is supposed to be warm and delicious.

Happy Friday, all!

And then when he's got a clean one on, that's when I chew his legs off into stumps

Our boy, our sweet, agreeable boy, has started throwing screaming crying fits the minute you put him on the changing table.

So you're carrying him, walking over to the table, and he's all, "Whee! Ha ha ha! Mamamamama babbaba. . .WAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH AAAAGGHGHHHHHHHHHHHH YOUUUUU SUUUUUCCCCKKK! BASTAAAAARRRDS! GAAAAAAH!

Seriously.

He acts like you are chewing his limbs off. Like you've got this grand plan to strap him to the table and chomp them off bit by bit.

And this is before you can even remove his diaper.

He flings himself to the left, and wraps his little arms around the bar on the side of the table. The bar designed to keep him from just rolling off.

He throws a leg over the bar as well. Or tries to. He has limited success with this, as the side he invariably chooses is the side that faces the wall.

But he clings for dear life, in any case.

It's like he's groping for freedom. Desperate.

AAAAAAHHAHAAAAAAAAAAAA MAMAMAMAAAAAAAAA AAAABABBBBBAAAA GGGGAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!! !!!!!!!

And so on.

So you pry him off the side, and you manage to get his diaper off.

And then he flips himself over. And clutches at the front of the table.

Sometimes I just wipe him off like that, but it makes it very hard to get the Butt Paste on.

Because have you tried to stick your finger Oh, never mind.

Anyway, I have to flip him - more trauma - and then pin him in kind of a wrestling hold.

This incites rage.

WAAAAAAAAA AAAAGGHH AAAAAAASSSSSHOOOOLLLLE BABABABABABABABA I'LLGETYOUFORTHIS AAAAAHHHHH!

And so, one hand pinning the kid, I do the best I can with the diaper. I pull on his pants once I've picked him up.

By which point he's all smiley and, "Oh, Mama! I'm so glad you came home! I love you sooo much! You're the best! Wanna read to me and then maybe we can have a little boob?"

Fear and postponing in DC

Partly fueled by seeing myself on video, I'm in a very bad no good angsty existential-crisisy kind of place today.

Because I was all, why? Why do I make those weird faces? And why am I that pale and wrinkly? Oh, maybe because I'm this old.

Not that I'm old in the scheme of the world, but I'm this old without having done anything interesting. I'm this old in a very safe existence, one that pays our bills and provides health care.

Which are important, to be sure.

But is this all there is?

Am I never going to do anything bigger?

I want to leap. I want to write. I'm terrified to leap. I'm even more terrified to try to write a book.

What if I suck? What if I fail?

Best not to try.

It's easy to not care if I'm good at the things that don't interest me, because I wouldn't care if I sucked at them. Judge me, it's fine.

I've had one job after another that I'm not remotely passionate about. And I've been good, or anyway, good enough at them. And it's all fine.

Fine. Just fine.

But the things I love, the things I want to be good at? Maybe I could do something great.

Which would be better than fine. As you know.

Scary. It's scary. Safe is, well, safe.

And I'm only getting older.

The way it is now

We added our modest contribution to Boobquake DC.

There was nary a seismic tremor, but I think it's because there just weren't enough scantily-clad women. Seriously, it was a very small group.

There were, however, a ton of journalists. I assume they were expecting a larger turnout and perhaps more flesh.

J and I mostly skulked around in the background, but a couple journalists chatted with us.

So we wound up in a couple shots, it turns out.

Last night our contractor called Nick and said, "Hey! I just saw Lisa on the news!"

And Nick was all, "Yes, yes. That's the way it is now. I go to work and Lisa goes to Boobquake."

And there you have it.

Because we are pro-boob. By that of course I mean pro-science.

I don't know if you've heard about Boobquake?

A blogger in Indiana named Jen McCreight (her blog with explanation is linked above) came up with the idea.

Taken from the Facebook page: "Many women who do not dress modestly ... lead young men astray, corrupt their chastity and spread adultery in society, which (consequently) increases earthquakes," Hojatoleslam Kazem Sedighi was quoted as saying by Iranian media. Sedighi is Tehran's acting Friday prayer leader.

So the Boobquake experiment is very simple - show as much cleavage or dress as immodestly as you are willing today...and see what happens.

It's kind of brilliant, no?

So there's a gathering in Dupont Circle at noon. And as fate would have it, I'm now home on Mondays.

And Big J and I love fresh air, hate oppression, and are overwhelmingly pro-boob. And I may be a lot less scandalous more modest than I used to be, but really, when it comes down to it, modesty is tedious. And scientific experiments are important.

In other words, I'm trying to figure out what to wear.

I'll let you all know how it goes.

Function: noun. Etymology: Middle English hom, from Old English hām village, home; akin to Old High German heim home

Betty stays with us during the week, as she's not so much of an early bird and getting to our house in time for us to get out the door would be a challenge.

She has her own space here, and basically we get up in the morning, I nurse, then Nick feeds Big J breakfast and plays with and reads to him, and then I put him down for his morning nap, leaving the monitor with Betty.

So Betty gets up every morning to Jordan's wakey-up chirps and babbles.

She and I are going carpet shopping tomorrow, and so she decided it would be easier to sleep here than go out to VA and come back in.

And she said, "You know, I'm starting to feel like this is more home than my house."

"You don't feel like you're stuck here too much?"

"Lisa, home is where you feel good. Home is not where you feel stuck."

I hope that's true for everyone.

Happy Friday, all!

It's not the iPhone, it's the people

I used to really want an iPhone.

I already have AT&T, so that wouldn't be a switch. But I have a BlackBerry for work, and I'm not really a need-to-be-connected-all-the-time person, so I just never did anything about it.

I know that the iPhone does all kinds of amazing things and there are apps for everything. And I find that pretty enticing.

But what puts me off is how annoying most iPhone havers are.

And how I don't want to be one of those people.

Have you noticed this?

Most iPhone people cannot sit in a meeting without fondling it, and checking it 57 times a minute. If you're out socially with someone who has one, they tend to pay more attention to it than to you.

Which makes me feel unimportant. And when I feel unimportant enough times, I stop feeling like you're all that interesting in my life.

But there is probably a Friend App for the iPhone, so real-life friends might not be all that critical.

And on top of all the iPhone fiddling with, I am tired of the word. It's in your hand the whole time we're talking. Do you also need to refer to it 17 times in conversation?

"So I was reading the Post on my iPhone..."

"I'm working from home this afternoon. I'll have my iPhone with me."

"Let me get a picture of that with my iPhone."

So.

I've been mentally substituting the word "vagina" for "iPhone."

Colleague sits down at meeting, pats pocket, stands up. "I'll be right back. I left my vagina on my desk!"

It keeps me pretty amused.

The snorchle snuffle snort

Big J has started doing this snorchy little snuffle face that simultaneously cracks me up and drives me crazy.

It makes me laugh, it really does. And if you squinch up your face and snort through your nose, it delights him, and he snuffles back. So you can take turns with the squinchy snorfling.

Not that any of the adults in our household would do that or anything. At least, not on camera.

But where it drives me crayayayayzy is at mealtime. Because he'll take a couple bits, and then start with the snorfling.

Which means you can't get any food into his mouth. Which makes mealtime last 37 times longer.

Which, when you are trying to get out the door and off to work but would really like to cram just a little bit of oat cereal and fruit into your kid's gullet, is very frustrating and very not hilarious.

I then wind up saying things like, "I have to be out the door in five minutes. So just think about whether you'd like some more prunes or not."

Snuffle snorfle.

"Seriously. I'm not kidding."

Sniff sniff snorf sniff.

"OK, young man. But you're going to be hungry later."

I hear myself say these things and I just wonder who I am channeling???

Quiz: In order to maintain marital harmony, the best answer might be...

Say your husband runs into someone he hasn't seen in a long time.

And he comes home and says, "Hey, I ran into Miguel today. You know what he said? He said I'd put on weight! Can you believe it?"

The best response to this is:

(And please remember the marital harmony part.)

A. "He must be smoking crack." Accompanied by a look of surprise.
B. "What a weird thing to say to you!" Said with a sneer that conveys that you never liked the guy anyway.
C. "No fucking kidding." Said with hands on hips and a maybe-you-should-cut-out-the-cheeseburgers-and-beer look.

I'll give you a hint, based on personal experience. The answer is NOT C.

Eight days a week I loooooove you

Today, my little sweetiepants, today you are eight months old.

Eight months! Two-thirds of a year!

Your two bottom teeth are coming in strong and proud. There's no evidence of others except pretty regular drooling, some crying, and waking up at night.

Those, and you chew on everything you can get your little mouth on.

You can't yet sit up on your own for very long - you still do the very sloooow fall over sideways trick. But you can roll and roll.

And you're getting very close to crawling. You do a very effective backwards scoot.

You've also become very proficient at what looks like a swim motion. You paddle yourself across the floor. And spin in a circle on your belly. It's extraordinary how far one can get on their stomach, it turns out.

You're wildly in favor of carpet fringes. One way or another, you make your way to the edge of any carpet in the room. Carpet! Fringe! Yum! And I'm just as strongly opposed to you chewing on them.

We passed a young guy sitting on a stoop the other day and he asked how old my little guy was. I said, "Eight months!"

And he said, "Oh, zero! Dude!"

And it's true - you're still not a year. And yet it is almost impossible to imagine our lives without you.

I mean, sure, I remember going out all the time and drinking a lot and sleeping in and not having to plan for anything. And that was fun and all.

But I don't remember those days in a longing way. At least, not very often.

And the truth is, I look forward to seeing you first thing every morning, and I rush home to see you at night. I get so excited when I walk in the door and you beam at me.

We have so much fun together. And you've changed us in ways I never anticipated.

I wouldn't trade my life now for anything.

I love you,

Mama

Not as cruel as May for me, but up there

This is one of those heavy posts that most people won't know what to do with. Just so you know.

And that's OK for me. I still need to write it.

April, for me, is a grim, stomach-achey kind of month.

In April of 2007, a couple days from now, my dad attempted suicide. It's not that the prior times weren't bad, but this was the most extreme.

I got there in time to see them carrying him to the ambulance. The police officers told me that the EMTs had gotten him breathing immediately, that they'd put a trach tube in.

We spent a long, long time that night in the emergency room. We signed a waiver saying we understood the risks, which included brain damage and death, of taking out the temporary tube and putting in a longer-term one.

He was pale and cold and his eyes were open, but blank.

They said we should assume there was brain damage. That they would assess the extent of it if he woke up.

IF.

If became when, and he did wake up. Agitated. Angry.

And then what they didn't know was if his trachea had been crushed. It was a long time until he could breathe on his own. Till he wasn't on all kinds of tubes.

It was a long, terrible time. It wrecked us.

Ultimately he got better. And he got out. He wasn't fixed - it's not something neatly fixable - but he was better.

And we were always scared. Always ready.

So last April, right around this time, when my mom called, I knew. And I knew what to do.

But just because you know what to do doesn't mean you're ever prepared for how you feel.

While that panic has worn off, while I don't live every day afraid, while I can now hear the phone ring without flinching, I'm still well aware of what day it is.

And I still hate April.

It's a wonder anyone shows up at all, don't you think?

So you know how Nick gets really annoyed when we have trouble with cable and phone and whatever else service?

And you know how he says things like he'd rather be raped than deal with them? Or that they might pee on his rug?

This time it's Verizon.

They really really really don't want to send anyone out to help you with your service. Even though they charge $120 for it.

Nick spent all kinds of time on the phone with them several weeks ago. They asked if he'd looked at their website. Yes. If he'd done this. Yes. If he'd done that. Yes. If... Yes. If... Yes.

Finally he was like, "I've done all of it. Can you please just send someone?"

"Well, you know there will be a $120 charge."

"I do."

And then the conversation looped around to other suggestions that would involve Verizon not having to come out.

Finally Nick said, "Look. I WILL PAY YOU! YOU! I WILL GIVE YOU $20 TO STOP TALKING. AND SCHEDULE SOMEONE TO COME TO MY HOUSE. Seriously. Give me your name and address. I will send you money."

I'm sure the guy was too scared to give Nick his name and address.

So he scheduled someone. Who didn't show.

After two weeks Nick got a call from Verizon. Asking if the issue was resolved.

Shockingly, the issue had not magically resolved itself!

Then the guy asked if Nick really, really wanted him to come out. Because it's a $120 charge.

And my beloved bellowed, "All I want to do is pay you $120 to come fix my wireless. YOU WOULD THINK I HAD A RAGING CASE OF HERPES AND I WAS ASKING YOU TO FRENCH KISS ME!"

Wednesday thoughts, arbitrarily numbered

1. April fills me with dread. I started hating it three years ago, and I can't say last year improved it for me at all.
   
   
2. Big J is feeling better. He's almost back to sunshine.
   
   
3. I have cabbage on my boob. I don't think anyone at work has any idea. I keep wondering if I smell weird, though.
   
   
4. I worked out in my toe shoes and was told I look like a Mutant Ninja Mama. I quite like the idea.
   
   
5. Procrastination has, once again, got me in a rush-rush. I need deadlines and pressure to get stuff done.
   
   
6. Azaleas and rhododendrons are blooming. I love them so much - particularly the pink ones. Turns out they're poisonous, though, so don't eat them.
   
   
7. This back-and-forth-y weather is making me a little nutso. Cotton dresses? Sandals? Sweaters? Boots? The hell?
   
   
8. And why do they call it "shoulder season"?
   
   
9. One of my colleagues keeps bringing in Us Magazine, People, etc. and leaving them in the kitchen. I've realized I don't know who a lot of the "stars" are anymore. This makes me feel old.
   
   
10. Also, I find it impossible to understand why people give a shit about Kate Gosselin. I don't wish her ill. I just wish she'd fade away.
    
    
11. And finally, I think I'd be OK with violent torture or hard labor as punishment for spamming. I keep turning word verification on and off. It's so annoying, I know. But so is deleting hundreds of spam comments.
    

Really should be titled crankypantsing all around

We are going on day three of serious crankyfacedness.

The boy, not me. Actually, me, too.

But only because my boy, who is usually sunshine and unicorn kisses all wrapped up in rainbows has temporarily (pray God) turned into a little pink ball of whine and gripe and scream. And poo.

Big J is feeling crummy - teething? - and he has had an upset tummy.

Not every moment. He can be his lovely charming self for a while, and then turn into a screeching dollop of misery the next.

We spent the weekend in kind of a poofest, with screaming SCREAMING at every diaper change. Of which there were a lot. And also at random moments.

And when you put him down.

And I'd nurse him and he'd fart these farts of death, which were only more evil because they were taking place like a foot from my nose. And I couldn't walk away.

Plus you'd have to check to see if it was fart? Or poo?

Nick and I both got poofingers checking diapers on separate occasions.

In addition to the fartpoo business, he's been needy needy needy. And screamy.

As you know, he's started making all kinds of noises lately. Babababababa! Dadadadada! So fun!

And also this new noise I can't quite describe. But I will try.

It's kind of like if you took an immense cheese grater and scraped it along rusty metal pipes rotating very slowly.

Next to which several cats were mating and making that screechy sound (which is apparently because cat penises are barbed???).

And someone was slaughtering sheep in the background.

While someone else was turning the key in the ignition of an engine that refused to start.

That's an approximate description.

Basically, it's very terrible.

And I feel bad for him, I do, and I try to comfort him, with patting and rocking and lullabies and, "Oh, honey, shush shush shush."

But the truth is that after a while, in my mind and sometimes even out loud I'm all "Jesus, Jordan! Goddammit! Stoooooooooop!"

Which makes me feel like a bad mama.

Correlative conjunctions

So, I'm not saying woe is me, my life is so hard.

But what I am saying is this:

IF you've gotten up, nursed, made baby breakfast, then realized there was a distinct poo smell, then realized it was a two-person poo, but you wanted to let your husband sleep...

AND you realized there were not enough wipes in the world to contend with the sheer volume of poo...

AND so you divested your child of the poo clothes and set him in a dry baby bathtub (because where the hell do you set a little human with big smears of sticky poo up and down his thighs?) while you got the water ready in the now-lucky-that-you-have-it second tub...

AND he screamed SO LOUDLY and with so much anguish (and also maybe you tripped over something that made a loud noise, as did you) that your husband came rushing in to see if you were ripping your child's limbs off...

AND he very nicely took over the bath while you scraped poo off clothing and changing pad and did laundry and washed out the poo-spackled dry tub...

AND then you nursed highly distraught baby...

AND if all this happened before 7 am...

THEN would a breakfast cocktail suddenly seem completely reasonable to you?

To be filed under people I love

This afternoon, for one night only, one of my bestbestbest friends - one of two people I keep up with from Carolina days - arrives with her daughter. The daughter who has been a staunch Democrat from birth.

My parents loved Ann from the minute they met her, and my father and Ann made each other laugh so hard. She always called my mom Betty, and she always called my dad Mr. Gloria.

I mean, not really Mr. Gloria. You know.

She's from the mountains of North Carolina, and you can hear it in her accent, which has not diminished over the years. She and her husband taught English in Prague after college, and I have always wanted to meet one of those Czechs speaking English with a strong NC accent.

One weekend in college she and I drove up to DC and were staying with my parents, who were having a dinner party that night. Two of the guests were old family friends, who tend toward the very proper end of the spectrum.

Sometimes or often my dad and I would kind of horrify them with our conversation. (Anal talk! Bad language!)

So at this dinner Ann and my dad were sitting across the table from each other, swapping stories. Ann had spent two summers in England working at a pub. My dad had been a busboy and a short-order cook in college.

And you know how they've done studies on groups and something like every eight minutes (or whatever the time frame is) there's a lull in conversation in the entire room?

It was during one of those lulls that Ann burst forth with, "Mr. Gloria! Did I ever tell you about the time I was waitressing and my underwear fell off?"

Love.

Feetie bla bla blas

Big J talks with his feet. Even before he could babble, his feetie feet said all kinds of things.

When he gets really excited he still kicks his socks off.

I came home on Sunday and walked in, and he smiled a huuuuge smile. And his little feeties went kickkickkickkick!

Mama! You're home! Ohhhh, yippeee! Kick kick kick!

One of the completely unexpected and overwhelmingly joyful things about having a kid is how unreservedly they show emotion. I thought having a dog was great for making you feel good about yourself.

Babies are even better. Like, 39 gazillion times better.

Seriously. You walk in and you get this look that's all, "Oh, HI! You're the greatest person in the entire planet! I love you like crazy! And you're about to pick me up! Oh, heaven! What could be better?"

Beam beam. Kick kick kick.

It's just fantastic. It makes you feel incredible.

And I was wondering at what point we start learning to control our emotions, to hide our enthusiasm. To play it cool.

Because really, who doesn't like being beamed at? I'd love for Jordan to keep on keeping on with the beaming in delight.

The kicky feet thing, though, I could see how that could get you teased.

I mean, can't you just seem some girl in high school being all, "Yeah, I was totally thrilled when Jordan asked me to prom, and then he started doing this weird kicking thing..."

If I had a wish that I could wish for you I'd make a wish for sunshine all the while

And yes, I also love John Denver.

What?

So the week before last, Keenie Beanie gave me a Sunshine award. How pretty is the bright orange Gerber daisy against the blue sky?

And I meant to write this post last week, but then it turned into a very bad no good no sunshiney thoughts kind of week. Grr.

So Keenie Beanie, she lives in what she calls a little house on the prairie. In Oregon, which is somewhere I've never been. She takes lovely photographs - of daffodils and clouds and things like a drop of dew in a plant. She thinks deeply. She cooks with Guinness. What more does one need to know?

So this Sunshine award is to be given to bloggers whose positivity and creativity inspire others. (Which of course flatters me no end! Thank you!)

I'm passing on the sunshine - this is just a a tiny fraction of the bloggers who sparkle and inspire me in a variety of ways.

Miranda goes about her life in Africa like it's just normal, because uh, for her it is. And I read her and look at her pictures and just sigh, thinking, oh, oh look, she's gone to Zanzibar! Again! One day I'm going to turn up at Miranda's doorstep. I want so badly to meet her. And peer through her picture window. And buy one of her mom's paintings. Did I mention her mother is an artist?

Having been born in Delhi and having spent so many years there, I felt this immediate connection with Masala Chica. She's Indian and also American and is working on what it means to be both, in a very candid way. She's married to a guy who is half Puerto Rican, and they call their children quartericans. How can you not love this hilariousness?

She Likes Purple has dealt with all kinds of challenges since her baby boy Kyle, a serious cutie-face, was born. She struggles, she thinks, she takes stock of her life and finds grace in small things. She works to be thankful for the things she has. I feel like I should do more of this, and it's nice to be reminded by example.

Trout Towers once described her undergarments as a "rubberized condensing tube." She had me long before rubberized condensing tube, but even if she hadn't, that would've sealed the deal. She raises chickens, she loves music and theatre, she goes to the opera - and is deep enough to actually get it, unlike me, who likes the idea of opera but then thinks, "Oh, enough with the singing, just die of consumption already" while I'm there.

Writing this reminded me that there are so many cool people in my blogworld, and I could go on and on (and on on on) about why I like all of you. And should, regularly.

Except right now I'm supposed to be doing my officjob. Like, rightnowasItype. So I'll stop now.

But it's spring! Spread sunshine!

In case you want a little more attention in public

I don't know what it is about bad cell phone reception that causes me to repeat myself louder and louder.

Why do I do this? I know that when I'm the one with bad reception, it doesn't matter how loudly the person on the other end is speaking. It's the signal.

But I forget this when the person on the other end is all, "Hold on. I can't hear you."

And instead of being all, "Hello? How about now?" I'll keep on with the conversation, but continue to increase the volume. And I also get increasingly annoyed.

Kind of like when you're in a foreign country and they don't understand your English.

I kid. Really.

So.

And have I mentioned that I gesticulate while speaking on the phone, just as if I were having an in-person conversation? This gesticulation gets ratcheted up the less I'm heard as well. You know. To really make a spectacle of myself make myself understood.

Yes.

So while I was gone Nick had the unfortunate experience of dealing with a two-person poo. All by himself.

And Big J has gotten very squirmy and very dexterous. So while Nick was grabbing for wipes, Jordan reached down into his poo. And then smeared it everywhere.

It was, as I understand it, like the aftermath of a giant poo massacre. Necessitating a bath and change of clothes for all involved.

Apparently the same thing, only less extreme and more contained, happened when Nick changed him first thing this morning.

Nick and I didn't have any chat time before he left for work, so when we spoke at lunchtime he told me about it on the phone.

I was in CVS, looking for baby-friendly sunscreen. And he kept not being able to hear me.

So at one point I asked, "Had you taken the diaper away? Did he scoop the poo out of the diaper?"

Like this is something I actually needed to know.

"What? I can't hear you?"

So I repeated - at louder volume - the question.

"Hello? I can't hear you. Hello?"

I started to repeat myself uh-gain, when he interrupted with another, "Hello?"

And instead of just leaving it, I bellowed.

"THE POO!"

"What?"

"THE POO! THE POO! HOW DID HE GET HIS HANDS IN THE POO? THE POO.."

"...You don't need to yell. What about the poo?"

"Never mind. Just. Nothing."

With many exclamation points! and laughter HAHAHA that will make you fear for my sanity if you didn't already

You might ask how I could leave this cutiefaced little bunny boo.

And by cutiefaced little bunny boo of course I mean manly-boy future athlete.
And I will tell you: with great difficulty. With approaching sadness as my departure nears. With full confidence in Nick.

Also, with fabulous platform heels! Cute clothing! A full tank of gas and a credit card! And one of my dearest friends!

And, critically, Alice - pointed in the direction of New Jersey, land of tax-free clothing and shoes, to visit another of our bestest closest BFF4evr kind of friends!

OK, that got super dorky.

But ROAD TRIP!!!

Mama takes her boobies to New Jersey all by themselves! Mama drinks wine and shops with friends and has no curfew and sleeps as late as she wants!

For TWO WHOLE DAYS.

Exclamation points x 73 gajillion!

Shopping with these two is how I wound up with the fantastic green shoes. Also these tarty (maybe sort of prostitutey) boots. And a number of others.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA (continues in maniacal, madwoman-in-the-attic, look-out-Mr. Rochester fashion)!

No sleep til Brooklyn!

Happy Easter, happy day of the Risen Lord, happy Cadbury eggs, happy weekend to you!

HAHAHAHAHAHA!

OKI'mgoingnowbye.

Yeah, me neither

I don't know if you maybe you have a pair of boots you think are really cute, but they have some rubber ridges on the soles that tend to make you stumble a little?

Which is all fine and well if you tend to trip a lot anyway, because then, really, what else is new?

And you usually wear them with your erection skirt, but you gave that away while you were pregnant, so you now - now being today - wear them with brown gaucho pants and a beige T-shirt and a little denim jacket.

This is all very cute and sort of springy but also sort of warm in case the weather man lied -- which he didn't, and it's spring! And you could be wearing sandals, but ah, well.

Anyway. You've worn this combo before, and you are sure that you've had to pee multiple times over the course of owning these pants and boots.

You must've. Without a problem.

But on this particular day, as you try to stand up from the toilet and pull up your pants, which you are trying to be quick about, because you're late for a meeting, the ridged rubber of one boot sort of catches in one swooshy wide leg.

This means that as you try to push your foot through while pulling up, that foot gets stuck mid-air. You don't realize it's stuck until you simultaneously push and pull hard.

Which causes you to off-balance yourself and stagger a little. On one leg. And being that those bathroom stalls aren't spacious, to maybe careen from one wall to the other.

At some point it may seem like you are going to go down. But you catch yourself after hitting the second wall.

And right yourself just in time.

By this I mean in time to assure the concerned voice from another stall that everything is, in fact, OK in there.