(a) My new, small boobs
(b) Possibly getting a boob job when I'm done having children
(c) "Do you still like my boobs?"
(d) "Really, they're not saggy, but LOOK at them!"
(e) "You're not looking at them. Do you not like them?"
...or any related topics.
(2) The raccoon.
He's in the house again. He found the big bag of Costco cat food in my office, and gnawed several holes in it with his insanely sharp teeth. It was the one night I forgot to lock the cat door, so it's my fault, but it pisses me off because the bag now leaks cat food every time I walk into the office, in a pathetic way, like St. Sebastian filled with arrow holes. My father-in-law snapped this photo of the raccoon -- it's NOT a stock photo -- that is the actual raccoon who spends half his life in my house stinking it up.How did he get the photo? With some telephoto lens? Is he a wildlife photographer by trade? NO. He walked up to it and took its picture, and it posed like a tired celebrity, like, "OK, let's get this over with."
(3) Miscarriage feelings. I started crying again last night. I'm losing so much bodily fluid with this whole thing, I practically need an IV. I've planted the "Garden of Grief" with sunflowers and poppies -- all seeds, no bedded plants -- so we'll see if it even germinates. If it doesn't germinate, I'm just going to lie down in the G.o.G. like Ophelia..."Rosemary is for remembrance..." and give the hell up. Tomorrow is the one week anniversary of my losing the pregnancy. It's sad to me that this miscarriage will only have empty anniversaries -- June 26 -- the day I lost the pregnancy, and February 25, the phantom baby's birthday.
(4) Miscarriage feelings, exploited. I tried to leverage my sadness over the miscarriage into a new pet acquisition, but Hub-D is wise to my tricks. As we drove home from the county fair today, I casually said, "I feel like I need a kitten," and he immediately replied, "We WILL get you pregnant again." We came to a sick but satisfying agreement whereby if I have a second miscarriage, I am allowed to adopt a kitten.
(5) The TART. No, I'm not referring to myself, although it would be accurate because at the county fair, I pointed out a food booth called "Sausage Works" and then riffed on it all day, I am referring to an actual TART. My neighborhood has an annual Fourth of July block party, and there is a baking contest. This year's theme is TARTS. I had to look up in "Fanny Farmer" what the heck a TART even is, and it's basically a short pie with no upper crust, and, to my mind, a way to sell friggin' TART PANS to people like me, who are just gunning for social acceptance on a block filled with seemingly more competent mothers. So now I have about 20 pounds of blueberries lodged into my refrigerator, awaiting my purchase of a GD TART PAN. Have I ever made a TART? Obviously not. Have I ever made a PIE? No. Do I have any skill whatsoever in this arena? NO. But I have a huge rolling pin I received as a wedding present, and a recipe from my mom, so the other moms on this block will HAVE to like me, after they see me strutting around with a blue ribbon on my shirt, "Oh, this? Yes well, I DID make the winning TART -- yes, that was mine! Sure, I can share the recipe with you. If you'll BE MY FRIEND, and SCRAPBOOK with me."
(6) The Steelers. I have found myself clinging to small victories this week, a la Kate Winslet in Titanic, clutching that wooden door in the frosty sea. So here is why I'm excited: The Steelers have cashed our check for game tickets this season -- so we will be receiving tickets to at least one home game. We are over the moon about this -- it's a chance to go home to "The 'Burgh" and watch a game at Heinz Field, where two GIANT KETCHUP BOTTLES spill red neon whenever The Steelers drive into the "red zone."
I mean, yeah! C'mon people, that's just awesome. And because I'm not pregnant, it will be FUN and I can drink beer, and everything's going to be OK.(Including my boobs, right? I mean, because if they aren't I could have a boob job, just say the word...)
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