Because the lolrus bukkit series cracks me up like you have no idea, Hubby gave me the best Mother’s Day card Evah!

Living in Jersey is so difficult. It’s dirty, everything smells like sewage, there’s nothing but industrial factories around here. I can’t even tell you how awful it is.

There’s really never anything beautiful to look at.

Everything is dull and drab and grey.

It’s really very unpleasant.

Certainly there isn’t anything that smells good.

I don’t know how I stand it. 

The hospital where I delivered Freebird did not have wireless internet. I think at that point they were lucky to still be open - and they still are from what I’ve read. I hope they stick around because aside from the lack of internet OMG WTF BBQ, I did love delivering there. It was marvelous.

Erin, on the other hand is liveblogging her birth, and the last post was that she was at 8cm after two days of off-and-on labor pains.

Go Erin Go! A safe, easy, and blissful birth to you!

I just talked to the architect we hired to design an addition on our home. Yes, I am due in September. Yes, he’s working on initial drawings. Yes, we’re clearly out of our ever-lovin’ minds.

It was like placing an order (which it really is since we’re designing exactly what we want) for my dream kitchen - and potentially dream master bath.

2 sinks, please. Medium rare! Bidet, oh please, oh please! Big bubble tub? Sure! Separate shower! As for the kitchen, wall oven and cook top! Space for 4 in the kitchen to eat? Sure! There were some things I am totally flexible about - I care more than there’s space for the immediate resident to eat in the kitchen than for there to be acres of room for an entire team of people to come through the kitchen for a buffet. It’s not like we live in a 50,000 sq.-foot house or anything. So when the architect asked me all these specific questions I was like, “Either is fine, but a minimum of this. Bottom line whatever works best.” It’s weird - most of the time I think I’m easy to get along with, and very flexible about how things work. I don’t insist that everything and everyone adapt to my demands, but on the other hand, if I’m paying for the customization, bring me a bidet and a jacuzzi tub, please thanks! (But not in the kitchen.)

“Placing the order” was really kind of exciting because it made me start thinking about what will change, what will be better, and how we’ll move the existing space to accommodate the new space.

Of course, when there’s a hole in the wall and dust everywhere and I’m living in a Pod storage unit parked on the driveway, I probably won’t be so excited.

The last time we did a kitchen, we hired a contractor who worked well for us at the time, but who had control issues - as in, she had to be in control of everything, and made most of the decisions as to what went where, what cabinets to buy - no I’m not kidding - what sink to put in, that kind of thing. She made the right decisions for us, but really, the most decision making we did involved picking a counter top color and a wall color. It was a total budget renovation so I understand the limitations, and it’s not like we had a clue in the first place. When it was finished it looked good, but going through the experience now, with a completely different set of professionals, has made me realize what a very, very different experience this will be.

I might be marking time on my calendar to leave the Pod storage unit on the driveway to go admire sink fixtures. And faucets. And, like, counter top samples and stuff. With my shopping tolerance, I’ll want to make that a 30-minute trip, if possible. Because damn. After awhile they all look the same.

I get this catalog and I can barely stand to look at it. It’s so disgusting - masquerading as a catalog of items for my personal “art of well-being,” it’s diet pills and nail fungus removal products and really gnarly looking vibrators shaped like worms.

I’m not kidding.

There’s also some really bizarre products that I cannot understand: press-on nails for toes. I have to confess to secretly wondering about whether there were press-on toe nails, since many a VH1 special talked about Lee Press-on nails.

But man, take a gander down disgusting lane - imagine all the geeyunk that would get stuck up under the fake press on toe nails with all that adhesive. Gah.

Yet that’s not the most disgusting thing in the catalog. There’s vibrators, tingle creams, things to put on your eye bags, your ass bags, bags in other places, and then.. there’s the stank bath.

Really, it’s the D-Tox Spa System. It looks like a normal footbath, except that you put these “detox salts” in the water, and in 30 minutes as your feet get pruny, the water turns the color of really bad diarrhea. Look at the pictures. I’m not kidding. The water turns shit brown. Just want you want to soak your feet in, right?

Right. Wow. Poop water. I need a vibrator now, baby. Yeah. Rwor. 

I am slowly approaching my birthday, and I was thinking today, what present would I like to give myself? What goal do I have to accomplish that I haven’t accomplished yet?

I’m starting a casual list - I’m sure this is of no interest to anyone but me, but hey, here be my space to remind myself of things I’d otherwise forget:

1. Do I want to carve out a Permanent Do Not Make it Messy office space with a desk and OMG a chair and give myself space to write more and work on My Other Job™ more deliberately? Or will that come with The New Kitchen that seems far away and impossible?*

*We hired an architect to design an addition onto our house. Yes, I’m due in September. Yes, he’s drawing now. Yes, I am clearly insane.

2. Do I want to treat myself to a course in photography, which I’ve been thinking about for, like, a year now, knowing that doing so would be (a) expensive sort of and (b) a commitment to take photos and actually do the lessons?

Wow, that’s a hell of a list. Woo. Stay tuned for more navel gazing and hot, hot attractive self-absorbed ruminations.

After over an hour of old-skool counting fun, Freebird was still awake an hour past his bedtime when Hubby came home from the vet last night.

Realizing that (a) I’d forgotten to give the teething young man some Motrin and (b) that maybe Hubby would like to see the Bird, we trooped upstairs - well, to be honest, I waddled, Hubby stomped because Hubby can’t climb up or down stairs without stomping, and Logan ran because he was still in the throes of joy at his anal glands finally finally being clear (Me: Ew ew ew. Logan: Yay! Yay! YAY!).

I went into Freebird’s room, where there was counting and clapping and One! Two! Tree! Fo! Five!-ing going on, and the young man stood up in his crib and started to jump up and down on his mattress with a look of “Did you know I could do this? I can totally jump on my own bed!” on his face. His mattress is seriously bouncy and I was totally jealous.

I scooped him up while Hubby fetched The Drugs, and while Freebird was swaying back and forth and babbling at me, I said, “Look, it’s Daddy! Yay Daddy! Can you say, ‘I love you, Daddy.’”

And just like that, no need for thinking time, Freebird turned his head around to see Hubby and said, “I LOVE YOU DADDY!”

Awwwwwww. Hubby’s face was priceless. And I’m sure, even though he’d never admit it, his heart just melted into a puddle of goo at his toes.

Now we’re working on, “Let’s watch Antiques Roadshow, Daddy!”