He Just Can’t Stop

Q:How many times can an older/ middle-aged and overweight dog stomp up and down a creaky staircase while your sick and clingy baby is trying to sleep?

A: 75,000 times.
No wonder he has trouble getting up on the bed. He’s spending all of his energy on patrolling the stairs.
(I know the pic is blurry. I like it because it makes him look a little nuts, which he is.)

So, our Bird has the pink eye. As in the DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING pinkeye. And miraculously, neither A. nor I have it, three days later. Probably because of the daycare’s fast-acting staff who called me at work to come get Bird, NOW, because she has some ooze in her eye, and until you get here they are not going to touch her with a ten foot pole. Which I guess I can understand. That shit spreads like wildfire.

And do you know who is the total bomb-ass expert at getting eye drops into the oozy eyes? A. He is a frickin master at that. Thank goodness. He is a master of a lot of baby things, actually.

I stayed home from work on Friday (oh, and by the way, part time work = no sick days, so staying home with sick baby = no pay, which means making up work hours on the one weekend I do not have class, beh.) to take care of pinky, and honestly, I think it did me more good than it did her. I would give anything to be a stay-at-home mom, or at least a mostly-at-home mom. I just want to be able to pay that much attention, and try to fit the rest of the world around me and Bird, rather than try to fit me and Bird into the rest of the world. But I’ve said all this before.

Time to Purge
I am back to having purse issues, meaning that give me a purse, and I will fill it. And now, with school, I have stuff floating around between my actual purse, which is stuffed to the gills, Birdy’s bag, which is full of stray peas and carrots, and my school bag. And I’m constantly moving things from one bag to anotherdepending on where I’m headed, in grave danger of losing my cell phone or my wallet, etc. in all of the shuffling. I need a bigger bag that can hold it all or a smaller bag that can hold a subset of necessities. Because seriously, when I leave the house in the morning, it looks like I’m moving out. I’m sure that keeps the neighbors talking (not really, unless they are talking about smoking pot in their car, because that is all they do).

What I really need is a caddy. Someone to tote around my shit and also give advice on the game, so that when I’m at the Caribbean place, I can say “Hand me my wallet, I’m going to order a black bean salad” my caddy can say, “You know, you have a meeting in 45 minutes, maybe you should go for the veggie pita.” and I’d be all, “Thanks, caddy.” And we would move on, and he would carry my shit, and I would have both hands luxuriously free to gesture wildly and adjust my large-brimmed sun hat.

Oh, and
Here are the earrings that A. got me for my birthday:

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