Your Break-ah my Fiestaware, I Break-ah Your Face-ah!

Oh, Bean. I think she is sporting a gang sign already in that third photo...thatta girl! True Dat, Boo. Baltimore loves ya, baby. My Uncles' girlfriend said these pictures make my baby look like an alien, but she recently had brain surgery, so I won't take her opinon to seriously. (Love ya, P! Baltimore loves you, too).

UPDATE: Dinner last week was an absolute fucking disaster, of course. Trouble almost amounted to a few broken Fiestaware dishes by a semi-drunk MIL who was slamming them around my kitchen to let us know that she was MAD (wah!), which would have been UNFORGIVABLE in my mind.

Those pregnancy book warnings are real: there are some guests who help when they come for a visit post-baby, and those who bring you pre-packaged smoked trout (say what?) and leave your kitchen in a state of turmoil and it takes hours to clean up after them, newborn in one hand, scrubber in the other.

God, I am glad that is over.

And perhaps writing about them on-line where the potential that they could find this blog might be my passive-agressive attempts of spewing out my frustrations that I cannot share with them in person...and it might get me in trouble. But I think you would do the same. I do. Especially when the pretty Fiestaware gets involved. You just shouldn't fuck with another woman's carefully selected dishware.

As some of you are aware, my mentally challenged cat Blue knocked a glass of water onto my keyboard at home (Handsome thinks it was me - but I promise, the Retard did it), limiting my space bar use and therefore curbing all emailing and blogging efforts. The only opportunity I have to post on here is when I am hiding out at the Bookstore (otherwise known as Only-Place-In-Town-To-Seek-Refuge-from-Formula-Stains), which can be as short as a few hours a week. But considering my life has warped into a mode of changing diapers, feeding the Bean, changing more diapers, making sure Handsome still likes me enough not to run off to Arizona for good, doing her TONS of laundry (this child makes a point of defecating and urinating on anything other than the diaper should the opportunity arise, and it does...too often), and trying to maintain a clean house, I have little to write about other than my Girl and her amazing kicking abilities. So you haven't been missing much.

My disability benefits will be officially over on November 22...I am already experiencing minor panic attacks about leaving my Bean in child care...we decided a few months ago to sign up with a really nice Greek woman named Debbi (Debbi? Greek?) who runs a small day care situation out of her home. She seems perfectly capable and her family is very nice...but the idea of leaving my Girl for 9 hours a day with another woman evokes strains of green jealousy in me that are reminiscent of my dating days, knowing that the man I was dating decided to tap the ass of another chick. It is intense! I am already jealous that Debbi will watch my Bean grow while I am at my mundane job, counting the hours until I can reunite with her...GOOD NEWS, though...Handsome and I have decided (mostly) to shut down the Bookstore for the winter and look into expanding our space back a few feet and installing a coffeehouse situation. The community has spoken...they "love" that we are here, that we have brought this funky little business into thier community, but really, REALLY, they want coffee. Not literature. Espresso double latte red eye caffeine pleasures...and I think that Handsome and I have agreed to finally listen. Only if they still continue to occasionally buy books - or I will secretly serve everything decaf, like that Starbucks chick threatened me with way back when.