Thank you all for your righteous indignation regarding my being shit-canned, I appreciate it. Although I probably should have mentioned that we were all shit-canned because the website is going kaput. Your instincts to boycott are therefore very generous, but unnecessary. And I'm not that upset about it for various reasons that I will explain over there later, including the fact that I have earned nearly as much in the past three days from a corporate freelance job as I usually earn in an entire month as a compensated mommy blogger. Although sweet jeebus that means I worked a hell of a lot in three days, much of the time trying to do it while running up and down two flights of stairs trying to get the toddler settled and asleep already.
In other news, I have decreed that we are going to spend tomorrow morning making gingerbread men from actual, homemade gingerbread. I got a recipe off the internet, of course, but if anybody has the best gingerbread recipe of all time and wants to share it with me I would be much obliged. However, please be sure it only contains ingredients which I have on hand as I have already been to two grocery stores today and I am not going again.
And hey, have I ever told you that I'm sort of a mole-y girl? I mean, not, like, carpeted in them, or anything, but not hurting for a lack of them either. There's the one on my nose which you will already know as Chris continuously refuses to Photoshop it out of pictures he posts, which is what I always do, and then I am forced to withhold sex because I think I have the right to dictate exposure to my own nose mole. And there's one on the back of my head and one on my knee and a little one on my right forearm. Not big gross hairy things, mind you, just wee little brown dots. Oh, and then there's one in my armpit. And one in my other armpit. I'm all symmetrical and shit, which rocks. Mia is obsessed with my armpit moles and is constantly forcing me to hike up my shirt so she can use her little doctor kit to check their heartbeats and give them shots, which I understand is entirely adorable, provided you aren't the owner of the armpits in question. When they are your armpits, it gets a little annoying after the 67th daily repetition.
I mention all of this because, and here is where you really get more information about me than you ever wanted, as if the mole discussion wasn't enough, I seem to have an ingrown hair in close proximity to old Lefty, and Mia loves and adores it and wants to spend all of her time poking it and I am beginning to think it is preparing me to feel that labor is no big deal because let me tell you that having an energetic toddler constantly poking an ingrown hair in your armpit hurts pretty much like a motherfucker and I cannot recommend that you try it.
Yeah, that's enough. You are so over me now, aren't you? Go eat some gravy for me, ok? Because the real suckfest thing about being a vegetarian isn't the bacon and it isn't the hamburgers it's the honest to goodness carcass drippings version of Thanksgiving gravy dumped on a pile of mashed potatoes as big as your head. It's enough to make a girl wish for just one day of amnesty, but instead I will live vicariously through your gravy. And pain-free armpits.
(Oh leave me alone, I'm working too much.)