When I’d been dating The Daver for about 5 minutes, I made mention of the fact that I needed to head to an office supply store and pick up a planner/calendar for school, something costing in the neighborhood of maybe 5 bucks. 10 if I went fancier. He took this opportunity to offer to buy me my very own PDA. The green aspect of it appealed to me, here was this thing that cut down on the use of paper and could be used year after year (my parents are hippies. Shut up.).

I insisted that he buy me a Coach PDA holder to go along with it, and when he agreed, it sealed the deal. I was to become a PDA user! Finally, I was moving into the 21st century along with the rest of the planet!

I spent a couple of hours painstakingly entering information into it, spent a couple of days carrying it around in my purse, occasionally whipping it out so that I could look cool (I’m sure that anyone around me was probably all, “what’s with that chick and her PDA?”), and then promptly lost the power cord.

The PDA promptly crashed, all of my information was lost, and the PDA is still knocking around somewhere in my dressing table.

Flash forward several years, when I see an advertisement for a cool new fancy camera which boasts that anyone can use it. Because we were currently using such a piece of shit camera that all of the pictures (like it or not) came out as though we’d been using a soft focus lens and the subjects either posing for Glamor Shots or starring in soft core porn, I immediately began to petition for it.

For Christmas that year I got the camera (with the fancy camera bag I’d insisted upon. You can see clearly where my priorities lie.). By March, it had been dropped, the lens busted, and for Mother’s Day I got a new lens. I can work the camera, providing one of the many buttons hasn’t been pressed (and thereby changing….something. Not sure what.) and frequently take pictures with it, but I can all but assure you that I’m not using it to it’s full capacity of awesomeness. Period.

Due to my long and sorted history with computers (my own father, who is an amateur computer person would often “reformat his hard drive” without remembering that I had had several school papers saved on it, so I’d have to scramble to rewrite my papers mere hours before they were due. Fun times.), it was with great trepidation and nail biting that I got a new laptop shortly before my wedding in 2005. I had requested a Mac, as they seemed to be the most idiot-proof (read: Becky proof) available, but due to some misfortune on my part it had some things (inborn) wrong with it. I can’t elaborate because I am as techno-savvy as the dog is, but it would crash a lot.

Earlier this year, those problems were fixed (by professionals. Not me. My idea of “fixing it” involved a sledgehammer and my garage floor), and all was well and good in Lappy-Land.

Shortly after these kinks were ironed out, “someone” stepped on my laptop. As was the case with the camera “dropping” I have no idea who really did it (although my suspicions are that I, myself did it (this is pretty much my standard MO). Well, this cracked the screen.

This is not a detail that annoyed me all that much, as I can work around most things, but it drove my husband nuts just thinking about it. He ordered me a new screen from eBay, and promised to take care of it.

Early last week, I knocked my lappy off of it’s perch. In addition to bending the power supply thingy (which I have had to replace a total of 10 times. A combination of sheer stupidity and poor design working against me. Let me be clean that the stupidity is on my part), this further cracked the screen. It looks amazingly trippy, but is now next to impossible to work from. Shamefully, I keep suggesting alternate things that I can now do with it to Dave, like as a fancy paperweight! Add some bling, and it might be quite cute hung on the wall!

Dave sweetly (and amazingly without rubbing it in my face like I was a bad dog who’d dropped a shadoobie on the carpeting, which, ever so maturely I’d probably have done) set me up on one of his many extra lappy’s. This is absolutely fine with me, as my requirements for a computer involve exactly one criteria: Email Machine. And preferably indestructible. I’ll never be able to utilize all that a computer is able to do, and any expectations of this would be as stupid as expecting Alex to potty train himself while I watch “my stories.”

But one of the greatest things about having a geek for a husband is that This. Will. Not. Do. It doesn’t matter that the computer I am using is free (and therefore better to me), he is bound, set, and determined that I need a new computer. Period. I don’t seem to be able to sway this one (again, I need to change my expectations here), and probably won’t rest until I have one.

Once I realized that resistance, in this case, was futile, I explained that although I loved my Mac, I’m okay with a much cheaper computer. I had mistakenly believed that this battle was over until last night, when Dave heard that there was a new “sexy” Mac coming out (a computer is about as sexy to me as a dishwasher), and that “I was going to change my mind about going with a cheaper laptop.”

The logical sequence for me is as follows (and starts with the supposition that I can’t possibly take care of fancy technology): Dave, who just got a new laptop for Christmas, could hand that down to me, and buy himself a nicer lappy. To me, it seems to be a win-win situation: we can get the much fancier Mac Air for Dave, who will take care of it gently and lovingly as if it were an ailing lover, and I can have something already paid for and (slightly) broken in. I can (falsely) claim that any damages that it incurs in my ownership were there before I got it (which will make me feel like less of a failure), and Dave and bask in the newness and awesomeness that is the Mac.

As Dave is one of the sweetest people on the planet (no sarcasm here. Really), I have my doubts that this will play out according to my plan, as I’m sure one day he’ll march happily home with the new Mac and present it to me, amidst my protestations that I don’t deserve nice things. I’m the reason we can’t have nice things! Me!

Eventually I will cave to the awesomeness that is my new Mac, and probably soon after, I will somehow mangle it beyond AppleCare. Rinse, repeat. Second verse, same as the first.

But, if past is an indicator of present, I will probably get a rockin’ case for it first.

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Is there anyone out there able to make me feel better about being such a freaking klutz? Seriously, what I haven’t mentioned here is that I felt incredibly bad about what happened to my laptop. I was nearly in tears (which is rare for cold-hearted Aunt Becky) for quite awhile over it (dramatic much?).

Last Sunday, after taking our cheesy holiday pictures at the mall (they are actually so adorable that I wish that I had a scanner to show you), in spite of my exhausted and openly weeping 6 year old son requiring a nap STAT, I was determined to procure an actual Christmas tree. We’ve never been able to have one before (due to various reasons), and it was on my Allmighty Schedule, and by God, we were going to do it. Dave snickered into his puffy gloves as I crazily launched into my diatribe after he suggested that we might want to do this another weekend, you know, when we were all better rested.

“I think you’re all fucked in the head. We’re ten minutes from the fucking Christmas Tree Lot, and you wanna bail out! Well, I’ll tell you something, this is no longer an option . . . it’s a quest! It’s a quest for fun! I’m gonna have fun, and you’re gonna have fun! We’re all gonna have so much fucking fun we’ll need plastic surgery to remove our Goddamn smiles! You’ll be whistling Zip-a-dee-doo-da out of your assholes! I’ve got to be crazy! I’m on a pilgrimage to see a tree! Praise Santa Claus!”

Dave has mentioned before that when I get a bee in my bonnet about something or another, he can always tell, not because my voice is shakingly raised or I begin openly weeping, but because crazy things begin to pour out of my mouth with alarming frequency.

This, of course, was one of those times.

Even the baby felt chastised and stopped chirping merrily until we dutifully pulled the car into the lot and embarked on our journey to get a Motherfucking Christmas tree, smiles stretched fakely across our cheeks. Since I cared only about getting a Christmas tree, any Christmas Tree would suffice, so I allowed Ben and Dave to pick it out, while Alex and I went inside to talk to the parrot that lives on this farm.

(Nothing cheers me up like having a conversation with this parrot, who is in love with me. Now, the conversation revolves around saying hello to each other in various tones, coupled with some laughter, and rounded out with his completely accurate immitation of my cell phone ringer. Then he’ll fan his tail at me, and we’ll start over at the beginning with our hellos. It’s like having an extremely colorful baby.)

(as all of my animals have been rescued from extremely sad and/or bizare situations, I am anxiously awaiting the day that I am given a parrot or another exotic bird to adopt. They are so amazingly awesome, and I am completely dying for one, but I cannot in good conscience go and buy one.

Not only because they are really expensive, but because my own bleeding heart tells me that I should not do this, as these animals were meant to live in their natural habitat. Which I am pretty certain is not a suburban street outside of Chicago, Illinois. Call me nuts, but even on the best days here, the avian life that I come across is more like a cardnial and a couple of finches, not a scarlet macaw or parrot.

So I wait for my exotic bird, just like I waited for my comically large bunny and my geriatric gecko.)

I’m pretty sure they were both more than happy to be allowed to escape the supreme pleasure of my company for awhile (Lord knows why), while the baby was stuck with me for the long haul (to be fair, I am the one who is stuck with HIM all night, every night). I have a feeling I was pretty frightening, because they both began addressing me in their most respectful, sweetest voices, suggesting I relax and maybe eat some McDonalds (yes, they are well versed in knowing the way to my heart well).

When we got the tree home, we realized that the mini tree lights we had gotten had (gasp!) white cords, which looked much stupider on the tree than you’d imagine. So, my mission (less stupid than Mission: ManBand, however) for the week was to pick up some lights with green cords. I bought about twice what I needed so as to avoid future mini Christmas light-less moments (because those happen all of the time, right? Right?), and because I have inherited my father’s OCD need to have backup’s and replacements FOR EVERYTHING.

Yesterday evening, the lights were finally placed on the tree, and today we decorated it. It was afterwards, when I went down to the basement to grab the rest of the Christmas decorations, when I realized that we had several boxes of mini lights down there. And wait! In that bin, there are even MORE lights. And THERE, in the corner, EVEN MORE lights!

It appears that my OCD habits of purchasing mini Christmas lights has spanned the four Christmases that I have celebrated with my own family (completely in spite of the lack of Real Live Christmas Trees, which is even more hilarious, when you think about it. At least to me. Who has had very little sleep these past days. So really strange things are uninentionally hilarious). My friends, I could easily open up one of those fly-by-night Christmas shops that you see in the strip malls with all of the unopened boxes of mini lights that I now own.

With the 27 or 28 boxes of unopened lights that we now own, it all but assures me that I will not have to purchase mini lights for the next 45 years or so, at least until the technology evolves such that my husband will be completely unable to resist the pull (But BECKY, it has a REMOTE and INTERNET CONNECTIONS! WE NEEEEEED THESE LIGHTS, BABY!).

But now I am trying to figure out what on Earth to DO with these lights. I mean, I’m past the days where I feel like mini lights really accentuate a rooms decor for 365 days a year, what with me no longer being a college kid. And it’s currently too snowy for me to string them up outside, lest I get an electrical shock or blow a fuse or something.

I guess I could try to rest easy, knowing that all of my mini light needs will be completely fufilled for the next several decades. Or I suppose that I could donate some to a frat house where I am certain they will be put to good use. The baby loves cords and lights, but I’m thinking with the new lead paint warnings displayed prominently on the label that maybe allowing him to play with those is probably not an option.

Any suggestions?

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Thank you everyone who has kept my family in their thoughts during this time. It means more to me than my ickle black soul can possibly express. My father will be going in for surgery again on Monday morning, and assuming that all goes well, should be home by Wednsday or Thursday (or whenever his insurance company boots him out).

It will be then when I feel like I can breathe again.

…well, as comfortably as one can in Critical Care.

He had two blockages in two of the great vessels, and one has had a stent placed. The other stent will be placed on Monday, once he has recovered more sufficiently from his myocardial infarction and his heart becomes less irritable.

Thank you very much to everyone who has kept him in their thoughts. My dad is very, very special to me, and his illness is seriously one of the worst things I can imagine. If I were to lose him, I genuinely do not know what I would do.

For some computer related reason (read: I have no earthy idea, but my darling geek of a Daver did, which is why I married him. My Internet is always in a row.), my blog was down for about a day and a half. This happened to stress me out FAR more than it should, which reaffirms my stance that I NEED to get out more. MUCH more.

Regardless, my blog got moved (again, no idea what this means in actual terms) so some of the comments that got left yesterday are miraculously missing. Everything should be easy-peasy now, so my apologies.

(The blog being down happened to coincide with the winners of NaBloWhatever being announced, and I randomly got selected to win, but since it couldn’t be verified that I did indeed post each day, I didn’t actually win. This is ALWAYS what happens to me when I am in the position to win something.)

(Side story: when I was about 8, I entered a coloring contest for Easter put on by my local grocery store. I colored my heart out, and when I got the call announcing that I had won, I rushed my mother down to the store to claim my overly large Easter basket. When I went to customer service to claim my gift, which of course, thrilled me to no end, the lady at the counter regretfully informed me that although I had been called, it had been in complete error.

I had not actually won the prize.

Oh, the tears. OH the tears. I wept copiously and hard bitter tears at my loss. So much so that one of the cashiers took pity on my sad self and bought me a candy bar. The candy bar was good, but the whole experience has left me a bit shy of anything relating to contests. I don’t win, therefore I don’t bother.)

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The second blood-letting netted me with a fancy new prescription for a brand spankin’ new dosage of my Synthroid.

What this effectively means, is that I have successfully warded off The Crazy, for awhile longer. Yay for not being full of The Crazy.

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Despite my repeated whining about how slowly my weight loss is going, and complaining about a lack of winter coat, I have lost an additional 2 pounds this week. This brings my total up to 14.5, leaving me .5-5.5 to go by Christmas Eve to hit my goal of 15-20 pounds. My goal will be revamped to lose the additional baby weight by Alex’s first birthday, give or take a month or two.

All whining aside, I’m nothing if not realistic about my weight loss goals.

Let’s see if I can do this.

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On a completely non-selfish note, I’d like to talk about giving this holiday season (and no, not to me).

When I was a child, there was always a huge Christmas tree at the mall that you could pull names off of and buy gifts for a needy family. Each and every year, we did this as a family, and I always thought of it as a nice tradition. The holidays must be a terribly hard time for the destitute, especially the children, and it always reminded us that although we may not have had a home with a moat and servants as I wanted, life was pretty damn fine.

But the trees have disappeared, likely because people would pull names and then not follow through with the gifts, which makes me terribly sad. Kids and animals (all kidding aside here) are some of my favorite creatures on Earth, so much so that I literally cannot watch violence towards them fictional or not, and I don’t believe that any of them should go without during the holidays (or any time, really).

Since the trees have gone the way of the condor, I have yet to find anything to donate toward during the holidays, and this makes me sad, as I’d wanted to pass that tradition down to my children.

One of my favorite bloggers, Baggage, aside from being a kick-ass chick, is a foster parent of several young children, which is awesome. I honestly don’t know how she does all that she does, 2 kids are kicking my ass, but I digress.

Today she posted about a site that you can donate to foster children who otherwise will go without this holiday season. I personally have picked out some things today that I will likely purchase tonight (scroll down to the end of the post to see the link).

I’m asking you guys to do the same. It’s not hard and you can only imagine what this will mean for a child.

This will be a scarily short post, as I am still recovering from the Thanksgiving Extravaganza. All went well, and despite my inability to cook, everyone proclaimed it a success (which by comparision to the usual nursing home food, is made that much better), although the meat was still mooing after it cooked (Ashley, you’d have been in heaven, me, not so into the raw meat thing).

We had a rousing discussion about colonoscopies, followed by a conversation about hypertension, and by the end of it, I was wondering if my eardrums would commit suicide, OR IF IT WAS JUST ME THAT WANTED TO DIE.

I’m just fucking thankful that it’s now over.

(Many moons ago, Dave and I insisted that Ben start drinking milk with dinner every night, a move that was fraught with peril. Ben was insistant that he would someday fly to Hawaii where I could not find him to make him drink his milk. He swore that he would take Alex and Dave and move away, somewhere that I could not find them and make them drink their milk.)

This is what came home with Ben yesterday,

Dear Mom and Dave,

Love,
Ben

I nearly laughed out loud when he got to the part about the milk, because that kid was FURIOUS with my insistance upon drinking his equivilant of battery acid, so much so that I had to call in for backup: Nat, to help me out.

If I had to write a letter to give to someone to give thanks, it might look like this. Well, actually, it probably wouldn’t, because I don’t like to write letters.

Dear Internet,

Thank you for not making me travel this Thanksgiving, as I cannot sleep in hotel rooms, BECAUSE I AM A FREAK.

Thank you for Fat-Free Coffee Mate (Vanilla OR Hazelnut), Healthy Life Bread, 150 Calorie Mini-Cakes, and McDonalds.

Thank you for YoBaby yogurt, which has allowed me such freedoms as occasionally letting my nipples go back into their rightful place, UNDER MY SHIRT, NOT FLAPPING IN THE BREEZE. Also, thank you to Pampers, for attempting to contain my son’s toxic ass.

Thank you for building a Target so close to my home, so that I may spend my life savings (hahaha) on frivolous stuff that I never knew that I needed but now cannot live without.

Thank you for finally breaking our nomadic moving patterns, and allowing us to live in the same zip code for over one year (although I’d imagine that U-Haul is not thankful for this, as I have not spent an insane amount of money on boxes lately).

Thank you (in advance!!) to Burberry for making the earmuffs (hahaha, MUFF!) that I will recieve for Christmas, that matches the scarf that I recieved last year.

Thank you Tiffany & Co for the lovely aniversary jewelry. Can I divorce Dave and marry you? I know that’s a bit forward, but I’ve loved you for a long time, and I know that you feel the same.

And of course, thank you for allowing me to run the Sausage Factory, each of whom makes my cold ickle heart grow larger and more complete each day. I’m looking at you, The Daver, Ben-a-bo, and Bubbly-Tubbles (yes, not only do my children have about a thousand names on their birth certificate, but they also have a plethora of nicknames).

Love,
Becky

(Happy Thanksgiving, bitches, Aunt Becky loves you!)

Having spent most of the weekend preparing for hosting Thanksgiving, I’ve spent more than a little time wondering why on Earth I agreed to do this. I love entertaining, for sure, but all of the prep involved in this is making me want to rip my hairs out of my head (and with losing most of them already, I am currently considering Rogaine for Women).

I’m fortunate, really, that my family is pretty drama-free overall and I am aware that this is a rarity. Even my in-laws, who may or may not have any idea what on Earth to do with someone like me, keep their opinions about this to themselves.

Now if you’ll excuse this sad excuse for a post (two excuses in one sentence. Score!), I’m off to clean the light socket covers and weep into my bleach wipes.

I admit freely that I love the holidays. It’s been well documented over the years, especially with the hugemongous collection of Christmas decorations that I acquire year after year (it’s threatening to take over my basement). It’s entirely likely that I will decorate the interior of my home prior to Thanksgiving, partially because I love the festive look but mainly because I have nothing else to decorate with.

Christmas shopping is one of the ultimate highlights of the holiday season, because nearly as much as I adore my (literally) 60’s white aluminium tree (admit it, you’re jealous of my awesome tree) and it’s festive blue ornaments, I love buying other people gifts. And then painstakingly wrapping them, and carefully arranging them under the tree. It’s like my own slice of cornball (mmmm, CORNBALLS) heaven.

I say bring on the blaring music from all of the speakers in each store, shit, I listen to Christmas music year round, if I’m alone (I’m slightly too ashamed to do this in front of my husband, who prefers whiny emo music BECAUSE HE LIKES TO FEEL SUICIDAL). I’m thrilled that Christmas preparations begin in the store sometime prior to Halloween, partially so that I can remember what season it is, and partially because Alex is entranced by all of the lights and colors, while Ben is thrilled to pieces about the upcoming holidays (whew, can we say RUN ON SENTENCE, KIDS? I know *I* can!). It’s instant Christmas-porn for my family, save, of course, from my darling husband who “didn’t like Christmas” before he met me. Now, I’m pretty sure, he’s mainly tolerating it for my sake (entirely similar to the manner in which I “tolerate” the piles of clean clothes that make their home on the floor, rather than snugly put away in their dressers. Oh, SNAP!).

Off the top of my head, there is only ONE thing, one LITTLE thing that drives me insane around the holidays: hokey jewelry commercials. Watching them is like listening to nails on a chalkboard WHILE stepping on a mad cat. They set my teeth on edge and make me break out into a cold sweat.

I promise it’s not that I’m jealous of the jewelry and am therefore upset and embittered that I am not about to recieve anything from their stores for Christmas, no way. The jewelry that I do wear (save from a few junky costume pieces) and recieve is from places that do not feel the need to advertise in places other than The New Yorker. Besides, from the looks of these commercials the vacant eyed looks on their faces of the people coupled with a collective IQ of about 94, I would never WANT to be like them.

I’m not sure WHY these commercials drive me straight to my bottle of vodka, truth be told. It’s not as though all of the other extremely contrived and corny commercials elicit the same visceral response from me, and they are no more or less hokey.

Maybe it’s because my marriage is not particularly artificial or wholesome, I’m more likely to be called “dude” or “ass” by my husband than “honey” or “sweetheart,” and I prefer it that way. Our way of showing affection is less “here honey, a piece of jewelry from that commercial” while we sit by a roaring fire discussing our feelings (while we both have great hair), and more an ass-smack while we allow the other one to eat the piece of pizza we’ve been coveting, while arguing about who was going to comfort the baby THIS time.

We’re absolutely the boring Part II of the romance that once was (one really MIGHT argue that we bypassed Part I entirely. It’s probably the case here), the part where we both get all boring and comfortable and pluck stray hairs from each other’s faces while complimenting each other on our burping prowess, but that doesn’t diminish our relationship one teeny bit. I mean hell, if someone can watch you expell a nearly eight pound child from your va-jay-jay and about a half an hour later confess that he’s dying to Have The Sex with you again, I’d call that love. Or stupidity. But I’ll go with love here.

Conversely, if he showed up on Christmas morning with a gift bag from the commercials and a vacant, wide-eyed look on his face, and said something schmaltzy, I’d wonder 1) if aliens had abducted him or 2) if he was having an affair. In the case of 1) I’d have him clean up his office as a test and if he did it without turning into the girl from The Exorcist, I’d keep him as a bonus CLEANING alien! We’d ALL win! If the cause for the jewelry was 2), I’d be inflammed that he hadn’t at least gone to Tiffany’s and instead, had cheaped out on me.

Hey, a girl’s gotta have her priorities.

So what annoys YOU about the holidays, Darling Internet?

If I am to categorize everyone in my house (as I have done with my two children), 7 years ago I would have qualified myself as A Sleeper. The running joke in my family was that a bomb could blow up half of my bedroom, and when rescue workers would come to sift through the rubble, they’d find me completely asleep in my bed, furious that they had woken me up. I’d have easily given up food for sleep, had that been necessary (why that would be necessary eludes me, but hey, it sounds good, eh?).

When I had Ben, despite a pregnancy in which all that I could do was sleep, once he was born I completely lost my ability to sleep heavily. He had his days and nights mixed up, so I was up for most of the night with him (Lord, THAT was fun!). Once that was fixed, and he began to sleep (but not behave) like a normal human being, I still unable to fall into that “dead to the world” kind of slumber. Which broke my heart.

When I found out that I was pregnant with Alex, my sleep began to suck. It was a mixture of problems: I spent many nights sprawled on my 70’s bathroom tile floor (a lovely shade of institutional green + sickly yellow, a perfect compliment to HG), I was worried sick that something was going to happen to my ickle fetus, and my extended LOA left our finances a mess. Needless to say, it made sleeping damn near impossible. By the end of my pregnancy, I could wave a bottle of Benedryl around my face and it predictably would laugh out loud, at it’s utter ineffectuallity and my plight. Nothing worked. At all.

When Alex finally arrived, my sleep became disjointed, save from the days that I would take prescription sleeping pills, in which sleep, oh GLORIOUS sleep would take me away from it all (like Calgon, but with a much worse aftertaste). Then my MD told me, OOPS! You’re breastfeeding so you cannot have your precious Mother’s Little Helpers (like that actually helped Sir Alex sleep more. Har-dee-har-har-har), and I was left back at square one. I was no longer pregnant, but STILL could not sleep.

Months have gone hazily by, and I’ve tried various remedies, but nothing (save for the Valium I stole from my mother’s stash) has helped. I simply cannot relax enough to fall asleep. Most of this can neatly rolled up into a sweet ickle ball and blamed squarely on The Baby.

For months and months and months and months, nearly every time I would fall asleep, the baby would wake up and need, well, SOMETHING. Anything. And since Dave works, that something would fall to yours truly to figure out. And solve. He didn’t listen my promises of a Porsche when he turned 16 IF HE WOULD JUST FUCKING GO TO FUCKING SLEEP ALREADY, CHILD. It became a vicious cycle: I wouldn’t sleep because the baby would wake up and then the baby would wake up and I couldn’t sleep.

Oops, did I say months and months and months and months WITHOUT mentioning that this was still occuring? Every night? My bad.

7.5 months on this great planet, and my kid still has yet to become even a moderately successful sleeper. Which effectively means that his mother is a trainwreck. With puffy eyes and bad hair.

Save from taking prescription sleeping pills (which I cannot do. Damn you, breastfeeding!), I am at a loss. I can’t do chamomile tea or warm milk, because without a set bedtime on the part of the baby, it’s not worth it to try and relax. So how do I let this all go and start entering the Land of Nod without being kept up by persistant “I can’t sleep because the baby will get up” worries?

Is it too early for Baby Benedryl?

Tuesday’s are my weigh-in days for my online Weight Watchers thingy, and despite having now lost 10 pounds, every Monday night I sit in fear of the morning’s number. Like it will have magically gone back up 10 lbs IN SPITE of having diligently stuck to the diet. I also offer up some silent prayers as the scale blinks and thinks about how to ruin my life for the week.

Methinks I need a new hobby. Or at least, some Valium.

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If I am going to continue in this whole “trying to post everyday” thing without actually talking about my lunch or my bathroom habits, I am going to need some help. This is where YOU come in: what do I write about? Don’t be shy, ask away (or at least give me some subject matter to write about. I can only talk about myself for so long before I start to get nauseous.). I assure you that I am the least modest person on the planet, so very little that you could either say or ask would be off limits.

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Something I’ve wanted to throw out there for a long while is this: do you OR should you comment on every blog that you read? I try to do so, just so the author knows that those site hits on their Site Meter aren’t just from spambots or whatever. Plus, most people who have public blogs tend to enjoy having an audience, so I’m happy to oblige.