Nothin'
I've got absolutely nothin'.
'cept this rash that I can't seem to get rid of.
So I'll throw down thoughts on several topics as they run through my feeble mind since the missus won't chat with me any more tonight.
Hey it could be worse, I could be fetish blogging.
Speaking of fetish blogging.
What's the appropriate waiting time on introducing your significant wife to the gimp you've got locked in the basement?
Just a kindly word of advice.
If you're an idiot don't walk around the grocery store slack-jawed, pants hanging off your ass and hat cocked sideways. Two of the three lets the entire world know that you shouldn't be allowed to breed.
The first sign that I'm getting old surfaced today and I scared myself.
There was a cute blonde (18 - 20 years old) with a perfect, bounce a quarter off it, butt in the grocery store ahead of me. Instead of the normal dirty thoughts, I was hoping like hell she'd a) let me cut in front of her or b) carry my groceries out to the car. Sad, it really is sad.
I'm of course blaming the above indiscretion, or lack there-of, on only getting three hours of sleep last night. The phinlet, he got seven straight, hours of sleep that is. Now whoever said "sleeping like a baby" either slipped a little bourbon into their kid's bottle or they haven't spent any time around newborns.
Poop update: None up the back as of yet, I'm sure it'll happen eventually, hell I've got a veritable cheering section going, well not me so much as the phinlet. One thing I would like explained. How the hell does 4oz's of breast milk become 8oz's of crap?
The most scary thing, this really is how my thought processes work, well not 100% because there are some I didn't cover here, I don't want the documented. Now you see why the missus gets frustrated trying to carry on a conversation with me?
Now if you'll 'scuse me, I'm gonna channel the Straight White Guy and go have a heapin' hunk of pound cake, fresh from the oven, with home-made strawberry jam. I really do lead a rough life folks, really I do.
You're losing it, man. But, get used to it. The cake sounds good, though.
Posted by: Dash at April 24, 2006 10:00 PMWow, Phin. Welcome to life as a parent. You just made me think of things I was trying hard to forget now that I have a 4 and 8 year old. ;-)
Posted by: Merri at April 24, 2006 11:40 PMDude. You've gotta stop reproducing our emails. It's, like, sooper embarrassing. ;-)
Posted by: agent bedhead at April 25, 2006 02:33 AMHey, I didn't like having to blog that crap, but I felt that folks needed... wanted... to know. It was a public service, brought to you by someone who cares.
As far as the gimp, unless you toss it on the table right away, it's best left a secret.
That's what I've heard anyway...
Posted by: That 1 Guy at April 25, 2006 09:43 AMUm, yeah. This seems to have been written whilst in the thoes of sleep deprivation, otherwise you'd know to just ditch the gimp. It's too late.
As for 4oz of milk becoming 8oz of poop...that phin, is one of the great mysteries of life. In a year, you'll face the next poop-related one - how can babies poop perfect little balls the size of malted milk balls.
Posted by: Theresa at April 25, 2006 09:47 AM... man, if I was any more laid back, I'd be in a coma....
Posted by: Eric at April 25, 2006 12:46 PM
