Deja Blog: Like the darling Comtesse, I am battling deQuervain's Tendonitis. Another breastfeeding-related injury, compounded by the fact that my son is four-and-a-half months old and weighs 18 pounds, 11.2 ounces. Man, when he gets to be five or six years old, he better make me the fanciest Mother's Day macaroni picture on the whole freakin' block.
Speaking of Alexander: He's teething. 'nuff said.
The whole household is sick with a cold.
I'm hip-deep in MCAD paperwork.
My mom was here for a week, which was great, but cut into my blog budget. And now she's gone, and I miss her, and am therefore feeling uninspired.
But on the plus side, on Sunday I nearly died. This is considered to be the plus side because, obviously, I'm still here. But if I had died, it would have been the sort of “News of the Weird” manner I've always expected: while driving down the highway past the Audubon Sanctuary, a flying wild turkey nearly smashed through my windshield. Yes, wild turkeys can fly. But not very well, because he'd already gotten across one lane of traffic and was still at eye-level with me — so close I could see the variegated colors in each individual wing feather. I shrieked and bowed my head, figuring that it could only be considered pro-Heaven that the CD I was listening to was the last of five of _The Screwtape Letters_.
When I got home, I told Monstro I nearly died, and how. Turns out he didn't know wild turkeys could fly, either.
John P's comment about the whole thing: “Well, I'm glad you didn't die, but if that's how you'd gone, imagine the wake! Wild Turkey shots with Ren-Faire drumsticks.” Which, frankly, is sounding pretty good right about now. Especially because there's a turkey down the road with my name on it.