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    At least he’ll have legroom and free drinks as he watches the baby

    February 28, 2006

    D called today with the news that his flight got ticketed and he managed to use his miles to upgrade to First Class (note the capitals–first class doesn’t look as good as First Class) so he’ll be joining us “up front” on our trip to Hawaii next week. I had already booked my First Class ticket on miles (his miles–that’s why I married him) but his ticket is courtesy of the federal government and thus requires ticketing 20 minutes before departure and that he be seated in the middle seat on the last row right next to the lav.

    After I booked my ticket, he said, “You booked a First Class ticket on my miles? You didn’t even try for a Business Class seat? You went right to First? Was Economy available?” Apparently his memory is short regarding our last flight with The Boy. I’m going to need all the free cocktails I can get and please keep them coming.

    I was going to feel so bad for him if he was stuck in peasant class with the baby while I was sipping cham-pag-ne in First Class. Now we get to be one big happy family. However this has presented me with a dilemma. If my husband is sitting beside me on the plane, it forecloses all hope that this man will be sitting beside me in 1B. Damn.

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    I hope the supermarket isn’t my Magic 8 ball

    February 27, 2006

    It all started when the old lady in the produce section said to E, “aren’t you so adorable” and then leaned over to me and said, “you are going to be fighting off the girls with a broomstick.”

    Was that a reference to me being a witch?

    Then it happened again in front of the meat counter. We were approached by a 60-ish woman sporting the exact same bouffant hairstyle she wore to her senior prom in 1959. She went on and on about E’s eyes, blah, blah, blah. She was telling him she loved him and was kissing his forehead. I know I should have been concerned but I figured that between the e coli and salmonella on the surface of the cart handle that he was sucking on and the afternoon at the rotavirus infested pediatrician’s office, what the hell could this woman give him? And then the conversation went haywire…

    Bouffant: Look at how long your fingers are…maybe you’ll be a piano player. Wouldn’t that be nice? You could be just like that Liberace.

    She hesitated long enough for me to envision E, fastforwarded 50 years, wearing blue eyeshadow, pink lipstick and a full length fur coat.

    Bouffant: But you don’t have to be a faggot like him. You can just be a good piano player.

    I looked across the meat counter in time to see the guy behind it double over and hide behind the counter in order to block anyone from seeing the hysteria that descended upon him.

    K: OK, we need to keep shopping. It was lovely talking to you.

    Sometimes it is just nicer to lie.

    When I relayed this story to my husband, he took a twist that really could, once again, only come from a man.

    D: I don’t want him to be gay, but if he is, I sure hope he has better taste than Liberace.

    Lord, help me.

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    A solution only a man could come up with

    February 24, 2006

    There are many a discussion these days regarding what to do with The Boy, specifically how the hell to get him back in HIS bed before I kill him. We crossed some line and now the crib is viewed as a torture chamber into which babies are thrown by mothers that are only seeking to desert their children in order to go downstairs and eat Cheerios and climb on the dog. That must be what we are doing because what is better than feeding the dog Cheerios while playing king of the mountain? Even walking within 3 feet of the crib causes unabashed wailing and hysteria.

    So my sister suggested that we just put a mattress on the floor, babyproof his room, gate the door and let him have at it. She also suggested that maybe if the kid was sleeping on a pillowtop mattress with 600 thread count sheets of his own he might stop jones-ing for mine.

    I made mention of this to my husband. He immediately suggest the race car toddler bed at Ikea. The kid is a year old. Who the hell is the race car bed for? Really? We also discussed how we might be able to keep him from falling out, if only to keep his sleep uninterrupted so that the rest of us could make a valid attempt at making it until morning without being BOTHERED (and that really is the only way to explain it) by the child that ALREADY bothers for 16 hours a day.

    K: Maybe we could just put one of those bed rails by the mattress on the floor so if he rolls against it, he might stay asleep.
    D: You know what he really needs. One of those dog beds with the foam sides on it.
    K: You didn’t just suggest that your child sleep in a dog bed, did you?


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    Email I received this morning regarding the behavior of my dog while I was off being tortured

    February 23, 2006

    so i’m up early this morning, buzzing around, trying to put the house together in a vain attempt at achieving a peaceful existence over here, and it dawns on me that zinni is nowhere to be found. figuring it would be just my luck for zinni to be lying dead in the middle of the road directly in front of my house, i check the street, but thank god, no zinni. then i check all the usual places–the piles of laundry in the basement, my lovely creamy white sofa, the lush (formerly cream) shag rug–alas, no dog. then i hear a little puppy sigh of bliss which sounds like it could be coming from upstairs. i search the piles of laundry in various rooms, and alas no dog. where could this 100 pounds of soft, wispy black hair be hiding, for god’s sake? i crack open the door of my bedroom, squint in the darkness to see madeleine and…what???? the ever so comfy, ever so snuggly, zinni, who is practically UNDER the lovely yellow down covers, deep in the sleep of toddlers on their way home from disney world. evidentally everyone on the planet–including small children and large black dogs–prefers 400 thread count sheets.honestly, guys, he looked like a goddamn william wegman portrait. maybe zinni needs an agent. i guess he must have figured after days of being subject to the drama world of madeleine where she makes kubrik look like a cake walk, he can sleep anywhere he damn well pleases.

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    February 22, 2006

    It’s finally over. Hopefully forever. I’m back at home, in bed, thinking that a Valium would sound good right about now. Thanks to everyone for all your thoughts and prayers. They were greatly appreciated and I think they did the trick.

    During the test today I drafted several posts in my head, to include “Why Do We Have To Be Such A Butt Ugly Occupation?” and “That Hair Style Went Out With Working Girl And Why Do You All Insist On Keeping It Alive” and finally “Who Picked Out Your Clothes This Morning?” The last is certainly the one for which I am the biggest hypocrite because as I was drafting the post this morning in between question 47 on easement appurtenants and question 48 on depraved heart murder, I looked down and realized what EXACTLY I was wearing. Recycled from yesterday (except for a new shirt and new underwear, and maybe new socks but I’m not so sure), I realized that the jacket I had pulled from the closet to go with my black pants was actually my NAVY jacket. Did I mention I was wearing a chocolate brown sweater? And I had a broken heal on my boot?

    Cookie is so wrong. On so many levels.

    I’ll be selling the t-shirts soon. Stand by.

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    You LOVE me! You really DO!!

    February 21, 2006

    As overheard getting out of the car this morning:

    K: Buddy, if God loves me, this morning I’ll get a wills question involving testamentary capacity.

    It was the 2nd question. Not only did I nail it, I wrote a treatise that would make a hornbook look trivial.

    What more does a girl need? 8 hours down, 8 to go… Keep praying. He is clearly listening.

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