Ugh. I’ve been feeling kind of ill for the past few days so haven’t really felt like writing. Every bite of food seemed out to get me, and what did I ever do to you, food? Yeah, that’s what I thought. Nothing.
Anyway, I had a massage scheduled on Monday and I decided nothing, not even relentless stomach cramps, was going to keep me from it. Made dinner, picked at it, left Dash in capable Daddy hands, and hit the road. And as I walk in the door anticipating how wonderful it’s going to be, it dawns on me that it’s 6:30 at night. It’s 6:30 at night and I’m wearing sandals. It’s 6:30 at night and I’m wearing sandals that I’ve been wearing ALL day. For like twelve hours. In the heat.

People. I know I’m not alone in this. All day in last year’s sandals in the heat in the sweat, etc, etc, equals gross, yes? Yes.
A light dread fell over me as I considered my feet being touched by this poor woman. I would have been mortified. Why the hell didn’t I think of this at home?

Thank God she wasn’t ready for me right away. I had a minute to duck in the bathroom, where I proceeded to put my feet one-by-one in her sink and scrub them with her (what smelled like) Softsoap, dry them off with paper towels, and stick them back in my grody sandals. Two minutes later, I was on her table and on my way to a massage-induced state of bliss. I only hope than when she got to my feet, she wasn’t thinking, “Is that Softsoap?”

Morals of this story for me are quite simple. Number one, massages are great and I need them on a regular basis. Number two, get some new sandals forthesakeofjesus it’s a new season!

Oh, oh! The Whippits, right. So I walked down to Granny’s house for lunch yesterday. The walk was great. Beautiful weather, Dash being his cute self in the MobyWrap, me being my cute self in a skirt. You know, the usual. The only mistake was walking down Brighton Ave. instead of heading into the neighborhood to avoid the heavy traffic. I got what I asked for.
Ok, but focus. The Whippits. Right.
After lunch, Granny says, “You want a Whippit?”
Immediately my head is racing. She didn’t just say what I think she said. She doesn’t mean what I think she means. Does she know what a whippit is? Did they do that in high school too?

And I decide to land on the relatively safe notion of playing dumb. “What’s a whippit?”

She reaches into the cabinet and pulls out this.

Ah yes, the WhippEt. A Whippet cookie. That’s different. For the uninitiated, and I imagine there are many of you, the Whippet hails from Canada. It is a cookie base topped with marshmallow and covered with dark chocolate. It looked, and still looks, pretty nasty but was surprisingly ok. Not that I’ll be rushing out to buy them any time soon.

And you know, it was fun to imagine, but I suppose it’s good to know senior citizens aren’t all wrapped up in the relatively juvenile highs of nitrous oxide, eh?

We three went to the Farmer’s Market the other day for new plants and whatever delicious produce we could find and ended walking away with so much more. Mainly, a basic tip on how not to raise Dash.

Cruel Mom says while walking by us: But then we’ll bring all these plants home and they’ll end up dead.
Sincere 6-year-old daughter: No they won’t.

Cruel Mom says while walking past us two minutes later: Ok. We’ll get one and when it dies I’ll take the money out of your savings account.

Dear Dash,

I love you so much. Please please please don’t grow up too fast.

Sincerely,
Mommy

p.s. I guess this means we ought to start baby-proofing the house? We have our work cut out for us.

But what’s the bigger danger here? Pile of old window frame with rusty nails? Mer mistaking Dash for small prey?
Yeah, we have a lot to do to make a safe home for you, little one.

If we’re talking about my period, yes, but that ship has already sailed. Something tells me I was supposed to send out Dash’s birth announcements a long time ago but, bite me, I just didn’t get around to it. And yes, I could just skip it entirely since family and friends already know he exists but there’s some annoying, proper part of me that isn’t letting me off the hook so easily. Anyway, he’s now an adorable five months old and I’ve committed myself to announcing his arrival to the world. After wading through a lot of cheesy options, I found hellolittleone.com and the delightful talents of Jenny. Just look at what she’s done.

.