Jessica, that's awesome. And isn't Trashy Diva bloody amazing? Sorry to hear the corset prices have gone up -- though, FWIW, I do think the one I have is the comfiest I've ever worn.
Now, thanks to WindSparrow, I want butterscotch pie. I've never even had it, but I just know I want it.
Long, long weekend, but anyhow productive.
Saturday: Hit Bed, Bath & Beyond and picked up some household semi-necessaries (comforter clips to keep the down comforter from sliding around and bunching up at the bottom of the comforter cover, which so far are actually working beautifully, and an alarm clock that is both digital and easily readable in the dead of night and NOT FUGLY, unlike our former alarm clock, which made the baby Thom cry). Also bought 2.7 metric assloads of groceries.
Sunday: Babysat two gorgeous little boys while their parents prepped for an anniversary date, their first night out in four months (she's six months pregnant with the third and last [the bulletin board at their computer contains a calendar, some baby pictures, and a huge informational pamphlet entitled "VASECTOMY AND YOU"]). The older talks, the younger shrieks and warbles. There was much kissing and hugging and tummy-patting, and a long earnest discussion about Batman. Talky-boy, Malcolm, has no interest in canon external to his own brain. His canon is: Batman is a superhero. Batman can fly and is invulnerable. Superman is stupid. Also, Superman is a crackpot and Batman is NOT a crackpot.
(At which point I had to stifle my inner Plei from saying, "Oh, honey, Bats is the Grand High Crackpot of Crackpottistan.")
Also, Bats has a twin brother (there are two Batman action figures, as there are in fact two of most of the really desirable action figures, in an attempt to forestall fights and meltdowns).
Yesterday: More babysitting while their father went to work (he's a chef, no holiday for him) and mom went to a doctor's appointment. Which sucked; dietary changes aren't controlling her gestational diabetes and she's now started on insulin shots, which means it's less certain that the diabetes will go away when the baby comes. So now she's all anxious and I'm all anxious for her and I wanted to stay but couldn't because Hec was at home all feverish and aching.
But there was kissing and hugging before I left, and Malcolm told me he loved me. Which he started doing about three weeks ago, and which kills me dead every time. He also told me he liked me:
Malcolm: Jacqueline, Jacqueline, Jacqueline I have to tell you something I need to tell you something Jacqueline I have to talk to you Jacqueline I have to tell you something.
Me: Okay, what do you need to tell me?
Malcolm: ... ... ... I like you.
Me:
t falls down dead
I'm all smitten. And also glad of the opportunity to practice toddler management techniques, which is oh so good, because the toddler equation of huge brain+tiny vocabulary=tightropes and egshells for the caregiver.
Hey, knick knacks need homes too. Hello Kitty, Minas Tirith, Death and her brother(s), drinking horn, human sternum, nun finger puppet, Scottie Pippen tree ornament -- they deserve as good a home as Gray's Anatomy.
human sternum
I want one! It can go next to my three human skulls (plastic, darn it. Real ones are too damned expensive).
Talky-boy, Malcolm, has no interest in canon external to his own brain. His canon is: Batman is a superhero. Batman can fly and is invulnerable. Superman is stupid. Also, Superman is a crackpot and Batman is NOT a crackpot.
Ahahahahahaha.
Also, aw to the love and like.
BTW, I have mentioned this site before [link] but if any of you want some strategies for decluttering, these folks have a very helpful bunch of strategies. The big principle there is, to take everything in babysteps. And that includes decluttering one's body. They'd probably say the only exercise equipment that most people need is a timer. Set it to 7 1/2 minutes, and start walking. When the timer goes off, turn around and head back. There, you've just walked 15 min.
Batman is NOT a crackpot
Who let Hec at him????
I want one!
I think Jilli hooked me up with it -- you should ask her.
Sorry to hear the corset prices have gone up -- though, FWIW, I do think the one I have is the comfiest I've ever worn.
The one I tried on was custom-made* in one of the most expensive styles, and the fabric was satin w/ a black lace overlay. So it was probably the priciest thing in the shop. Pity it looked so good...
(*Custom in TD parlance meaning hand-made, rather than already-owned-by-someone-else-'cause-made-especially-for-them. The saleslady said that for women with a high bust-waist ratio (i.e., BIG BOOBIES), the custom-made ones tended to fit better because they're cut in a more hourglassy shape, as opposed to the off-the-rack ones, which are straighter.)
Only 9, Ginger? *g*
(I don't know how many we have, actually. Three large ones in here, three mid-sized ones in the living room, one large one in the bedroom, one large one in the study + the wall mount shelves, four large and one small in the basement? Maybe? Oh, and one in the bedroom closet, but half of that is used for sheets. Hell if I know. Not enough.)
You just think you're getting rid of the plans, though. Getting rid, for example, of the giant treadmill that has been serving as a clothesrack and takes up half your bedroom doesn't mean you'll never be in shape, it just means you won't be using that particular object to get where you're going. The future is still as full of possibilities...and the present has less junk in it.
As always, Robin is wise.
I'm slowly purging clothing. It's a lot easier when your whole body is going to be a totally different shape than it used to be, but you have no idea what that shape *is*.
Second WindSparrow's FlyLady recommendation. It's really helped me realize two important things:
1. Babysteps are OK. Your home/office/life didn't get chaotic overnight, so you shouldn't expect to fix it overnight.
2. Keeping an orderly house is something to do for yourself, to make your environment more peaceful and pleasant. Think of it that way instead of resenting it as demeaning drudge work.
