"It begins to tell
I do pretty well
til after sundown
suppertime i'm feelin sad
but it really gets bad
It's late-thirty (I don't care what the blog time says, it's half past midnight on Friday morning). The house is dark, everyone is snoozing, and I'm thinking about the book Itty-Bitty and I were reading last night. The kid is like his gramma (my gramma)- fascinated with Egypt and mummies. Well, OK... just the mummies. Anyway, we were looking at several mummies and he was having me read little blurbs about scientists who dug into crusty ol' thousand-year tummies and elucidated last meals. This one had some type of vegetable soup with barley and that one had grains and slightly burnt bread (enough to make you hungry).
So I get a call today detailing the happy, normal doctor visit of a thirty-week preggert and "then some other stuff happened" (including the very depressing news about Connor Peterson), and the house is asleep but I'm up with my head in the fridge. Just when I could eat no more I started thinking of the mummies, and I thought, were there a flash ice age, some scientist of the future would take one look at the contents of my stomach and diagnose depression:
"Close examination of the mummy's stomach reveals something of her last meal. We found butter crackers, peanut butter, brussels sprouts, dried cherries, apples and chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. Such a meal would indicate severe depression. We hypothesize that if the ice age hadn't killed her, her eclectic diet would have."
And because I've packed it in and am feeling quite saucy, I'd just like to take a moment to thumb my nose at the normal, non-defective baby-havers of the world (I resent the hell out of all of you) and just let you know that when I don't forget to eat, I eat like a frigging pig and never gain an ounce! So HAHA! On your death bed you'll be surrounded by all your umpteen children, my one living child will be too busy playing PlayStation 2 to come to my side, and I won't even have my own body fat to keep me warm. GREAT.