Oh Interwebz, I mean to post more. I miss you sumtin’ fierce. It’s just not going very well.
I’ve been working on a letter to earlier me for the past week or two. The letter was supposed to be all, “Don’t fret Elly, it’s going to get easier, if you’re going to clean the oven it should be so you don’t set off the smoke detector every time you make a frozen pizza, not so it’ll be more comfortable when you put your head in there.” But see, every time it seems like it might in fact BE getting easier, the shit hits the fan.
Sadly, that’s not a figurative statement. I’ve since moved said fan.
The two month visit at the pediatrician shows Paul to be in the 90th percentile for height and only the 50th for weight. Which, unless you’re Kate Moss, seems to be a bad thing. Nothing like a little empirical evidence confirming you suck at something, eh?
Oh…there’s apparently a word for Paul’s recent mood change – colic.
No, I’m not wallowing in self pity. Much.
Still, today you get a guest uker. I mean, some things just don’t need to be documented – like this sleep-deprived disaster coated in dried breast milk, spit up, anti-gas meds, seventeen different nipple creams, and tears.
So today I’ll be sharing a stupendous video from the Fruity Ukulele Ladies that the badass Amanda sent me. What’s not to love about this song? Everybody sing along!
I feel better already! At least I know about Dereon Jeans. And people say US Weekly is a waste of paper. Sheesh.
Now follow the lead of that fruity uker in the plaid and get that bottle of vino open, bitches!