A Girl...

You Are My Sunshine

Those of you who have seen my recent Flickrings will have noticed that the onesie decorating was a huge hit at the baby shower this weekend. For a short time I believed that my sunshine with the gender-neutral sparkles served as inspiration for the designs that followed, but clearly some people don't need no stinkin' sunshines--sunglasses or no--because they have more talent than the sun has gaseous molecules, which means they are able to produce things like this:

And who, you ask, is responsible for that masterpiece, painted from memory and without the aid of a penciled-in outline?

Simon. Of course. And if he wants me to stop bragging, he should stop being so damn awesome all the time.

Also, stop holding babies.

I mean it. Stop it at once.

There were a million frajillion babies and toddlers at the shower and jesus lord almighty I kept my cool the whole time, even with a certain boy waving fat little fingers and chubby little chins in my face and showing me how gently he can kiss the baby's soft, soft hair. There's only so much I can handle, though, so when we showed up for Game Night at the home (a bitchin' loft overlooking the freeway) of two people we'd met at the shower, well, it would only be accurate to say I lost it completely, and in front of strangers no less. I was already primed and ready; all it took was a little push to send me over the edge.

As soon as we walked in the front door, our hosts shoved a rum and coke in Simon's hand and this in mine:

There was a lot of two-fisting at that party. It might have been heaven.

Look at Jasper: proof that in all their nine weeks these kittens haven't seen anyone the likes of me. Look at their fat little tails and their pointy little chins! Look how gently I can kiss their soft, soft heads! We were there until two in the morning playing nerdy board games with a group of pleasant nerds (one of them had a shirt that said "Sciencepalooza"), and it wasn't until I was bullied into participating sometime around one o'clock that I got off the floor and let the poor little things lick their butts without me shoving a lens all up in their business. Do you blame me? Would you give up this to build imaginary railroads across Eurasia?

I had three glasses of wine at the baby shower and two virgin Cokes at the kitten party, and yet I woke up the next morning feeling like I'd just stepped out of a cave after winter hibernation. I suspect I was just dehydrated and heatstroked because I'd sat in the sun for four hours while supervising the onesie decorating. Oh yeah--all that wailing I did about winter having arrived like a freight train? Forget that. It was 75 degrees and cloudless all weekend, and even though we were both exhausted after the long Saturday afternoon and late Saturday night, we dragged ourselves up by our collars because it was too gorgeous to stay inside all day. We went to Costco to stock up on salad ingrediants, and then we supplemented our free-sample breakfast (a bite each of organic sausages, buffalo mozzerella, microwave Philly cheesesteak, and triple-fudge brownies; thank you, Costco!) with California rolls in the parking lot. Also, we finally finally finally bought a space heater for the apartment so there will be no more cry frozen tears about living in an ice palace. This just after we bought a popcorn popper that not only blows a stream of delicious hot air but also makes the house smell like fresh tortillas.

By about three o'clock we were both zombies, but the SUN, it must be SOAKED, and so we sucked it up and strolled the sidewalks of Fourth Street among the paraders of dogs and Bugaboos and yuppie couture until the shadows got long and everything closed and I absolutely needed to sit down and close my eyes before I blinked too long and walked into a tree.

After that, we went home and freelance proofread and played guitar and ate salad and watched the first half hour of Dune and went to bed and dreamt of kittens and babies and planets on which everyone's eyes glow blue for lack of water and nothing makes any sense whatsoever if you haven't read the book first. In the morning as we left for work, we realized we'd left the car unlocked and stuffed with valuables all night long. It was parked right next to the spraypaint that reads "Oaktown Crips."

May the almighty powers that be (or Chuck Norris) protect us from our enemies and those who squeeze us too tight.

Posted by Leah at October 9, 2006 05:25 PM