Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy

So I'm standing in front of the sink today, doing the dishes that procreate before my very eyes, and I realize I'm smiling. Unlike Rachel Ray, who smiles in the kitchen too damn much (1), I rarely find myself doing much of anything with a pleasant look on my face. It's sad to say, but my life is often just that.

Anyway, in addition to my smiling incident at the sink (2), I found myself (3) driving down the road, pumping away, and to top it all off, I was laughing (4). Here's my question. What the hell has gotten into me? Is the government putting happy pills in the chemtrails again? Whatever it is, I'll have another...

1. What the hell is she smiling about? It's not one of those 'spaced out' vacant smiles. This bitch is really smiling. My guess is it's probably related to a man.

2. No, I won't tell you what I was smiling about.

3. Yes, I say 'found myself' too much.

4. The guy in the car next to me probably thought I was on crack. And no, I won't tell you what I was laughing about.

Mr. Rogers is a Punk-Ass Bitch

Well, I've birthed Picasso's spawn. I turn my head for one minute (ok, more like ten), and Hayden decides to "paint" with Mr. Rogers. We seem to have some issues in my house with ol' Fred. Monkey see, monkey do. Mr. Rogers creates a little masterpiece, Hayden makes a damn mess. My computer area and chair (might as well add 'ass' to that list since the damn chair was under Hayden's jurisdiction) are now orange.

On the positive side, my son created a memory that I won't soon forget.

Time To Pump and Dump, Bitches!!!

It's the weekend. I'm less than enthused. Hayden's words of wisdom today:

"It's a pogo-stick. That's a good idea."

A double screwdriver, glass of wine, or your choice of beer...now that's a good idea.

The Apple Doesn't Fall Far From The Tree

Just so you know (as I have been told approximately 119 times this month), today's "special number" is 10. Tomorrow, the "special number" will be 10, and yesterday, the "special number" was 10 as well. Please make a mental note of it.

Hayden is nothing if not consistent...he gets that from his Mama.

Literacy, My Boobs, Questionable Taste in Music, and My Boobs

Well, I'm all for early literacy. Kids need to learn to read, people. But, let's not practice on my God-awful-expensive-overly-priced library books. I found Hayden drawing all over The Metabolic Typing Diet. At least he has good taste.

In addition to my library book woes, my boobs look like bulls eyes. I don't mean to be graphic here, but breastfeeding is not for the faint of heart. If you want to surrender yourself to your babe for a year or so (which I adamantly believe you should), get ready to suck it up. Your boobs are not your own. Or anyone else's besides the baby, for that matter.

And what's up with my taste in music? I'm the only person who has Eminem and Frank Sinatra together on an iPod. Maybe it's because they both sing (well, past tense for Ol' Blue Eyes) about real shit. None of this Bieber-Fever-Baby-Baby-Baby-Ooooh mess. I wanna hear about lust and rehab and alcoholics and trailer parks and someone with problems worse than me.

Did I mention my boobs are sore?

Crystal's P.O.A. (Plan of Action, For Those Who Care)

Days like today make me want to drink. Heavily. Instead, I'll fire up my cinnamon incense and hope for the best.

P.S. I know what you think my P.O.A. was. My, what a dirty minded creature you are...