A Girl...

YKK

It rained and rained and rained and rained all night long. The raingutter at the back of the house, where the bedroom is, doesn't have a spout that runs all the way to the ground, so it was like eight hours of Chinese water torture, what with water and the Chinese landlord upstairs and the drip drip drip drip drip drip drip congratulations, you are now insane.

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Yesterday Simon picked me up from work with a new (old-school) air popper for popcorn. I love it when he buys home appliances and calls them "presents for us." He also bought me pair of underwear--black with yellow skulls and hearts--and, for himself, a motorcycle jacket with bold racing stripes up the sleeves. On sale for $12, he is a man after my own heart, and it almost makes up for the ridiculous winter coat he bought over the weekend, which is North Face brand and therefore overpriced, even at 50 percent off. It's down and puffy like a four-season sleeping bag, and there is fur involved. Just wait.

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This weekend is the baby shower for which I volunteered to organize the onesie decorating table. According to the instructions on the fabric paint, we needed to first wash the onesies to remove the sizing, so among the skull panties and "Rub My Weiner" shirt in our laundry pile yesterday evening were itty-bitty little snap-crotch outfits that I wanted to lay across my arm and rock gently to sleep. And dude, even Lane gets a baby and it's so not fair.

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My bladder is full of tea and I can't use the bathroom because the office cleaning ladies are in there with their buckets and mops and foul-smelling potions and cell phones, on which they are talking instead of cleaning and getting the hell out. Ladies. Please. I have to pee. Take your gossip elsewhere or you're going to have a new mess in the hallway.