I’ve been writing this blog for about two months now. I try to faithfully write something clever and sassy every day, and some of those days, I succeed…but mostly I just dangle thoughts in front of you and hope they make sense. But now it’s getting to the point where I need your feedback. I crave words of encouragement–or words of disappointment. I long for you to comment, to show me you’re out there and somewhat interested…or maybe just waiting for me to say something profound–which is defiantly NOT going to happen. So comment dammit or email me. Let me know how I’m doing and that you’re reading. I know, I know, you’re shy–but you can do it…for me?
If you haven’t heard about it yet, there is this ultra creepy video circulating with Tom Cruise talking about Scientology. It’s so weird in fact, that it has led Jerry O’ Connell to do a parody of it. Funny.
Last night my brother and his girlfriend Amanda came over with sugary snacks and a hankerin’ to play Apples to Apples. If you have not heard of this game you should go to your local Target, buy it, and buy some Milk Duds, Chips Ahoy, and Triscuts, and then come over to our house and play with us.
Last night we learned that steak and potatoes, discovering America, and Tom Cruise are all responsible and ear wax and cockroaches are chewy…and that China is so in right now.
Every year Pat and I go to the LA Car Show. We enjoy the culture, the cars, and we especially look forward to the pretzel with sneaky cheese. It’s sneaky, because I steal it. I steal cheese at the car show. Okay? Leave me alone. The pretzel stand only offers packets of mustard, and mustard almost sounds like turd, and no one wants a layer of turd on their pretzel, plus mustard is gross. So, I sneak into the food area where they sell the nachos, hot dogs, and baked potatoes, and I ask politely en español for an extra side of cheese, and then I look really really sad…and PRESTO, I become the proud owner of a cup of cheese. Enough for two soft pretzels, lightly salted thankyouverymuch.
Oh, yeah, and I almost forgot about this gem of a photo:
After our bellies were full with cheese and salty-soft goodness, our inhibitions were lowered just enough, that when asked to pose in front of a green Jeep, we thought HELL TO THE YESS!
So there you are folks. Don’t say I never give you anything.
When she goes to sleep I am able to get stuff done. I can finally brush that thick morning goo off my teeth and take a shower, I can brew a cup of coffee and enjoy sitting and reading my email, I can even crochet, if I was in to that, which I’m not.
The point is, naps are important to both Berlyn and me. And if she doesn’t get the approved alloted amount of sleep, both of us are cranky. ALL DAY.
The whole house is quiet when she sleeps, but when I hear the gardeners or the trash truck pull up, I have to take every precaution not to go outside and say, “SHHHH! Berlyn is sleeping!” and then cock my riffle so that they know I mean business.
Nap time has become a very tense time at our home. When both Pat and I are home and Berlyn is sleeping I follow him around the house giving him the eyebrow raise/eyeball bulge combo that says, “baby sleeping, SHUT UP.” It doesn’t matter what he does, I tend to think it’s too loud. Coughing, whistling, flushing the toilet, all warrant a disapproving look from me.
Mr. UPS man, don’t even think about ringing our doorbell. Just leave the package on the doorstep and quietly shut the gate behind you. I swear, because if you ring the doorbell and your head is not on fire, I have every intention of kicking you in the shins.
I am looking into soundproofing Berlyn’s room. And some medical attention for me.
Have you ever had the unfortunate experience of having a song stuck in your head while you are sleeping? If not. You suck. Here is how this works, you lay your tired head down to sleep and become all cozy and whatnot, you think about how your day went and remember random stuff like the burrito at lunch had more sauce than usual, and the hair on your upper lip needs to be removed. And when you finally fall asleep… “I’m leavin’ on that midnight train to Georgia.” Frickin’ Gladys Knight comes gallivanting into your thoughts. “Oooh oohh, I’m leavin’” Or an American Idol version of Gladys Knight, which is way worse. But you see, I’m dreaming, so there’s not much I can do. I’m trapped in this vortex where American Idols do shitty impostor motown songs and all I can do is hope I wake up soon. “All abord, all abord, all abord, to the midnight train to Georgia.”