Is me!

Dear Owen, and the rest of the internet, but really specifically Owen, since he reminded me to update things, or at least his mother did,

I'm fine. Bloated, crabby, and in the 15th hour of the dumbest damn thing on the planet: Braxton Hicks contractions! Woohoo, false labor! I've been torn between "Please God, let this just go ahead and turn into birth," and "Oh Satan, keep 'er in there for another two days, because I have this wedding on Saturday and it's my last one, and I really don't want to have to call the bride and tell her that I'm panting my Lamaze on the side of the interstate." I didn't have this false labor thing with Norah, and I'm gonna go out on a limb here and CALL BULLSHIT ON IT ALTOGETHER.

But that's only today - otherwise, I've been tired, overworked, back-sore, and all the other joys that come with being full-term knocked up with a second child during a pretty much full-time job with ludicrously odd hours. I promise to resume regular posting at some point - this is just not that point. Believe you me, internet, whenever this child gets herself bornded, as Norah says, YOU WILL KNOW, if only because I will have finally, FINALLY stopped whining.

For now, however, I am off to consume my body weight in watermelon, my current crush food. Ohh, melony watery goodness.

Please note that this is not an invitation to snark on ANY political candidates. I'm just bitching.

Dear Barack Obama,

Dude. For real. I love the fact that your name is Obama. I love your wife's pearls. I love that you came to Carrboro not that long ago, because that's about the last place I'd expect any high-powered Mr. Man to visit (not that Carrboro isn't a really cool place, because it is, but you'd think you'd stick to Chapel Hill, its more snooty-boo neighbor).

But seriously. Just because I am a registered independent does NOT mean you get to call me four times in five hours to remind me to vote. Your people, or people claiming to be your people, have now dialed my number with their magical autodialers ELEVEN times since yesterday morning. That Other Candidate has not yet called, which at first hurt my feelings and made me think she didn't care, and now is sort of making me like her more, despite her mannish voice and unfortunate choice in lady politician hair.

So please, please, stop calling. I know I need to vote, and I fully intend to do so as soon as my (deep breath) Republican spouse gets home to relieve me in the childcare duties; this would suggest that perhaps I am aware of my responsibility as a good American citizen to a) choose a candidate and b) cancel out Rob's vote in the future, and perhaps you should call off the damn dogs already. I got a kid what needs a nap, and if your people wake her up again, I'm dropping her off at YOUR house.

Love and frustration,

The skink in the sink, and other Seussical reasons for me not blogging

I'm not dead! Just thought I'd start by informing you all of that, since it's been about six years since I posted anything of merit (and what, three weeks since I posted at all, har har har). I keep experiencing things and thinking "Oh dear, I've just got to blog about that," but I then forget, because what else is there to do when you're pregnant, other than bitch and moan about the inverse correlation between your ever-expanding belly and your ever-decreasing wardrobe options?

(And oh wow, do I do this a lot. I am down to four shirts, FOUR, that I'm willing and able to wear on a regular basis. This wouldn't be such a big deal, since I don't really do much that requires fancy wardrobery, except for the fact that three of said shirts have grease spots on the front and force me to constantly hold something over them, like a purse, or a small child, or the car. My back may be aching but my biceps are remarkable.)

Anyway. The skink in the sink is kind of funny, so here you go. A couple of days ago, Norah and I were doing our thing in the yard - she in her swing, me on my knees in the garden, pretending that the plants are actually going to survive this year - when the phone rang. I trotted inside, leaving her in the swing (she can't unbuckle herself, so I figured she wasn't going to escape or anything), and answered the phone that hangs next to the sink with a cheery "HellOOOOH GOD WHAT IS THAT?" Good thing it was a telemarketer - bet they won't be calling here to offer me any more Scholastic books THIS year, huh?

"That" was this, a Southeastern Five-Lined Skink, who had wiggled his skinkly way through the screen and onto the sill, and fell off into the sink. One would think that skinks would have stickier toes, or something, but this one was clearly a somewhat deficient skink, because OF COURSE the only ones who come to my house and get themselves in impossible situations are the messed-up ones. He was missing part of his tail, he was orange, and good golly, he was looking at me. And skinks bite.

I didn't want to alarm the kid, so I maintained my cool and attempted to trap the little bugger under a Tupperware bowl. Deficient or not, he was pretty bloody fast, and reluctant to be trapped under the Tupperware. So we spent several glorious seconds chasing each other around the sink, until I got mad at him and slammed the bowl down in front of him, trying to scare him into holding still. Because that's wise, right? Scare something that bites? Heck yes! He didn't bite me, though. He had some kind of skink seizure and fell into the garbage disposal.

At this point I was pissed, both at myself for leaving poor Norah in the swing through all this ("Mama? Would you like to come out here and push me now? Mama, I am not having fun, did you know that?") and at this clearly STUPID lizard for getting himself into this position. My hand was on the switch, y'all - I was going to make skink pudding, the easy and downright nasty way. But I stopped, and I thought about how it really would kind of be murder of a defenseless little thing, and how I am not That Person who murders things, and I had a MacGyver-style idea: I stuffed the disposal full of angel food cake, backed it up, flooded it with water, and watched Sir Skinksalot float to the top. Scooped him out, stared at him for a while, did a few fist-pumps in the air to celebrate my toughness, and chucked him out into the yard, where Norah saw him and descended into hysteria. I felt good, righteous even, for having saved one of Mother Nature's creatures... until I realized that now we have no angel food cake, and that's probably even worse than murder, maybe.

Other news: pregnancy good, baby due in eight weeks (wha?? how??), photo biz a'rockin', and my buddy Mills and sister Kate ran the Stick Horse and got medals, because they're that kind of cool. Next year, girls...

(Thanks to Mills' mom for the photo, which I have printed and hung on my fridge in an effort to inspire myself out of the ice cream. Ha.)