I've got my blog, I've got my Orange Crush
I realized yesterday that I have 25 public followers. Twenty-five! Wow!
I feel like a bloody rock star.
Or blog star. Or something that maybe doesn't sound as lame as ''blog star".
The important thing is that 25 people have decided to come out of the closet and admit to the world that they actually read my stuff. That's a very brave move considering I write about sensitive topics like parenting and, even racier, food experimentation. Do you really want be associated with a girl who eats peanut butter and chips in a single sitting? You do? Great! I'm enlightening the human race to new ideas and you're boldly coming along for the ride. It's like the 60's all over again, man.
I wish I could reward all my sheeple with an excellent post, but unfortunately I'm feeling rather run down and, thus, uncreative. I think it's a combination of too many late nights partying it up with diet drinks in hand, my body's reaction to Onion Fest 2009 (see yesterday's post), and a mild yet annoying virus running through the Maven family.
Two of my three gremlins are down for the count. Gutsy had a mild fever today and slept on the couch, randomly singing things in his sleep. It was amusing and rather creepy. He gets weird like that every time he's feverish. I sometimes sit next to his bed and wait for his head to turn around and his body to spew forth the vomit of Hades but it hasn't happened as of yet.
Spawnling has a disgusting runny nose but is otherwise fine. Well, if you count sleeping like ass as fine. I define 'sleeping like ass' as waking up at least half a dozen times throughout the evening and night, which means I can't do much of anything but hang out where I can hear him (read: not in front of the television. Sigh) and wait for the next time he starts crying for me. Princess Stuffynose finds that illness does not agree with beauty rest. And then her servant - that would be me - has to convince her highness that the two of them can go together. Over, and over, and over. I've contemplated some kind of mild narcotic concoction to help with the convincing but I've heard that's actually illegal in most places.
Stupid laws.
No sleep for the wicked, or rather, The Maven, means that I was bound to get sick. Thankfully I've been feeling the effects of germ invasions far less since giving up meat. If I get hit it's much milder than it used to be. I have my theories on that (like fewer toxins and such) but I think it's at least partially karmic. Not killing animals for food must put me a little higher on the righteous scale, shouldn't it?
...What's that? The self-righteous scale? Really? Oh, you're hilarious. Now be nice or I'll feed you to one of my eager followers. There's a good chance that one of them is willing to try cannibalism at least once.
I'm certainly glad I got the busy part of this weekend finished off before the ick factor settled into my body and made me not want to do stuff. Other than having a steaming hot bath I have folded and put away some laundry and watched The Thunderbirds.
Yes, the kids' movie. Yes, with my kids. Well, Gutsy was sleeping and Spawnling was playing with toys and Intrepid was out with his dad getting a haircut until the last five minutes, but whatever. Leave me alone, alright? My fragile mind can't handle anything more complex than movies about teenage boys trying to prove themselves to their fathers.
Geekster came home, made fresh bread, buttered a piece and brought it up to me in the bath. He also brought me a Timmies coffee. I love that man. Now he's playing Mario Kart with Spawnling while Intrepid is fishing for compliments from Gutsy in the kitchen. 'Like my new hairstyle? I look older, eh?'
He does indeed look older and grinned from ear to ear when I told him so. It's so very wrong that I have a child who will be driving in four years. I'm far too young and beautiful for this to be happening so soon.
I'm going to go curl up and watch the races in the livingroom. I'll leave my readership with a funny anectode from playgroup this week that I keep forgetting to write about.
Spawnling was happily playing with a dollhouse for a good while before coming over and asking me for his guitar. I said 'What do you need your guitar for, little guy?'
He looked pointed at the toy he had been playing with and said 'I want to rock the house.'
That's my boy.
Now back to being sick. Please send me nice comments and maybe buy me some chocolate.
(You can't have followers and not ask for stuff, right? It's worth a shot, at least.)
I feel like a bloody rock star.
Or blog star. Or something that maybe doesn't sound as lame as ''blog star".
The important thing is that 25 people have decided to come out of the closet and admit to the world that they actually read my stuff. That's a very brave move considering I write about sensitive topics like parenting and, even racier, food experimentation. Do you really want be associated with a girl who eats peanut butter and chips in a single sitting? You do? Great! I'm enlightening the human race to new ideas and you're boldly coming along for the ride. It's like the 60's all over again, man.
I wish I could reward all my sheeple with an excellent post, but unfortunately I'm feeling rather run down and, thus, uncreative. I think it's a combination of too many late nights partying it up with diet drinks in hand, my body's reaction to Onion Fest 2009 (see yesterday's post), and a mild yet annoying virus running through the Maven family.
Two of my three gremlins are down for the count. Gutsy had a mild fever today and slept on the couch, randomly singing things in his sleep. It was amusing and rather creepy. He gets weird like that every time he's feverish. I sometimes sit next to his bed and wait for his head to turn around and his body to spew forth the vomit of Hades but it hasn't happened as of yet.
Spawnling has a disgusting runny nose but is otherwise fine. Well, if you count sleeping like ass as fine. I define 'sleeping like ass' as waking up at least half a dozen times throughout the evening and night, which means I can't do much of anything but hang out where I can hear him (read: not in front of the television. Sigh) and wait for the next time he starts crying for me. Princess Stuffynose finds that illness does not agree with beauty rest. And then her servant - that would be me - has to convince her highness that the two of them can go together. Over, and over, and over. I've contemplated some kind of mild narcotic concoction to help with the convincing but I've heard that's actually illegal in most places.
Stupid laws.
No sleep for the wicked, or rather, The Maven, means that I was bound to get sick. Thankfully I've been feeling the effects of germ invasions far less since giving up meat. If I get hit it's much milder than it used to be. I have my theories on that (like fewer toxins and such) but I think it's at least partially karmic. Not killing animals for food must put me a little higher on the righteous scale, shouldn't it?
...What's that? The self-righteous scale? Really? Oh, you're hilarious. Now be nice or I'll feed you to one of my eager followers. There's a good chance that one of them is willing to try cannibalism at least once.
I'm certainly glad I got the busy part of this weekend finished off before the ick factor settled into my body and made me not want to do stuff. Other than having a steaming hot bath I have folded and put away some laundry and watched The Thunderbirds.
Yes, the kids' movie. Yes, with my kids. Well, Gutsy was sleeping and Spawnling was playing with toys and Intrepid was out with his dad getting a haircut until the last five minutes, but whatever. Leave me alone, alright? My fragile mind can't handle anything more complex than movies about teenage boys trying to prove themselves to their fathers.
Geekster came home, made fresh bread, buttered a piece and brought it up to me in the bath. He also brought me a Timmies coffee. I love that man. Now he's playing Mario Kart with Spawnling while Intrepid is fishing for compliments from Gutsy in the kitchen. 'Like my new hairstyle? I look older, eh?'
He does indeed look older and grinned from ear to ear when I told him so. It's so very wrong that I have a child who will be driving in four years. I'm far too young and beautiful for this to be happening so soon.
I'm going to go curl up and watch the races in the livingroom. I'll leave my readership with a funny anectode from playgroup this week that I keep forgetting to write about.
Spawnling was happily playing with a dollhouse for a good while before coming over and asking me for his guitar. I said 'What do you need your guitar for, little guy?'
He looked pointed at the toy he had been playing with and said 'I want to rock the house.'
That's my boy.
Now back to being sick. Please send me nice comments and maybe buy me some chocolate.
(You can't have followers and not ask for stuff, right? It's worth a shot, at least.)