Last Thursday during my morning run, I took a bit of a spill. And by "took a bit of a spill" I mean that if nine months from now, I give birth to a bouncing baby sidewalk, not only will I not be in the least bit surprised, but I will name him Woodland Street. After his father. 

Ridiculous, this fall. My toe must have caught an uneven break in the concrete, and in the split second my brain processed the jolt, I hit the ground with such nauseating force that my pepper spray SPONTANEOUSLY EJECTED FROM ITS HOLSTER. 

Okay?

Thank god it was dark and no one was around to see me, because I'm pretty sure I left a dent. My right knee was skinned completely bald, and my left elbow was shredded and bruised to about a third of the way down my arm.

I took a picture of my elbow and texted it to my friend Graham when I got home because she has nurse tendencies, and I wanted to be all LOOK AT MY BOO BOO. Plus, she was there the last time I nearly broke my elbow by tripping over a small child and falling down the stairs, so I thought the photo had sentimental value. 

She (like everyone else I showed, because I am a showster!) was like, YOU ARE DISGUSTING. 

No she wasn't. 

(She probably was. In her mind.)

A week later, I can move everything perfectly well, but my knee is still swollen and radiating a strange eerie heat, and going up and down stairs is a geriatric pain in my ass. 

So I'm taking a few days off from running. 

Which is what brings me here. 

HI THERE!

I've missed you.

I really have. And I keep thinking I'll find my groove and get back into a semi-regular writing routine, but it just---hasn't happened yet. 

I work. A lot. And when I get home, I'm focused on the boys, and homework, and laundry and my quest to find a lunch food that Patrick will actually put in his mouth, and then rinse, lather, repeat. Another day.

The good news is, I love where I work. My clients are great. My coworkers are awesome. I'm still just offensively happy about the whole situation.

Truly, it's gross.

So the rest will sort itself out in due time.

Lots of love from the Blabbermouse House to yours.

 

We're always en route to the mundane when they ask me these questions.

Where do babies come from?

I mean how do they get out of the mom's belly?

I've skirted this particular question before, with talk of "Sometimes the doctors make a cut in the mommy's belly and they take the baby out that way."

But this time, they were demanding more. 

What happens the other times? Do they pee or poop the baby out?

I explained that babies were neither peed nor pooped. That babies come out of a woman's vagina.

Silence from the back of the car. And then. Gus.

"But how does something as BIG as a BABY get out something as SMALL as a ..."

Me: Yeah.

<moment of silence>

Gus: That is just WRONG.

Me: Tell me about it. 

 

 

Quotidian

Caprice

Ipso Facto

Nonplussed

Sanguine

Anathema

You?

The women at work were discussing donuts.

Two boxes of Krispy Kremes had appeared on the kitchen table, seemingly out of nowhere.

-I don't even see those.

-See what?

-Exactly. 

-They're not even the kind I like.

-What kind are they? 

-The ones with the chocolate icing and that stuff ...

-Custard?

-Yeah, the custard in the middle.

Me: (Shrilly inserting myself into the conversation as I can rarely resist doing.) I don't eat the ones with the custard centers. I don't believe in them. YOU ARE A DONUT. YOU DON'T ALSO NEED TO BE A BOWL OF PUDDING.

We ask too much of our food.

Larry brought home a pair of Gigi's Cupcakes the other night (leftovers from a school function), and the frosting-to-cake ratio was so obscene, it was as if Black Beauty herself had ingested a bucket of glitter and painstakingly beshat each one.

Which is not to say I didn't eat one. My strong donut morals, apparently, don't transfer onto cake. Even when the cake looks like Carmen Miranda.