Happy Monday. I hope your holiday was all that and then some.
Here in Connecticut, we're digging out from mounds of snow. When I told Junior we got about a foot he asked, "Whose foot?"
This is officially The Week of Diddlydoo. I've been a fucking maniac the last few days. I finally made Christmas cookies:
Just in time for...
...no visitors. Well, I guess I could consider Chuck a guest since he leaves his towels on the floor like our house is a goddamn hotel and yours truly is the chambermaid.
(Enjoy those cookies, you peckerhead.)
I packed my hospital bag. I packed Diddlydoo's hospital bag. I've also laundered 500 loads of laundry, bleached the bathroom floor, and last night, in a fit of sheer OMG-I-have-to-organize-something, I tackled Chuck's sock drawer and matched all of his socks.
I can't help it. I'm done working. I'm nesting. I'm freaking out about having a newborn and not remembering what to do with a newborn. My hands are constantly twitching. I'm surprised I didn't cut the cookie batter into a labyrinth of complex geometrical shapes just so I'd have to reassemble them.
What does one do while waiting for a baby?
Relax. I know. I should take lessons from our fat cat and just chill the hell out.
Or I should take the advice of my co-worker—who told me at the Mulletville Corp holiday party that semen ripens the cervix—and boink Chuck's brains out. (Do you know she also told me that if I'm not in the mood we could use a, um, turkey baster?) But that would mean Chuck gets to spend the week—this important, pinnacle week—snacking on hand-crafted cookies, enjoying matched socks and getting laid.
As if! The life!
What about me? What about my needs?
Oh, right. I'm the woman who spent my Sunday night playing with my husband's socks. By choice. My needs as of late are appallingly strange and June Cleaver-ish.
Maybe I should go baste something.