I prefer to think that I have watched exactly the right amount of Zim.

Man. I just closed the door and it's still all stinky. I am full of sushi rage.

SOMEONE has watched a little too much Zim....

Hey! Zim gives you lots of useful references for pregnancy. Not only can you fly into a rage for the tiniest slight, and be repulsed by food, but you can come out of an ultrasound thinking, "It's a perfectly normal human worm baby."

My nomination for bumper sticker of the week - "Proud Parents of an Anime Otaku". It's the "proud parents" part that I like.

Pregnant JZ is even more entertaining and adorable than pre-pregnancy JZ, which shouldn't even be possible.

Am I the only one thinking that the big announcement was suspiciously well-timed to allow for JZ's sushi-fueled rage-on?

(strange yet apt x-post with sj)

I just got spam with this subject line: "Any child may catch a fish, but only men can follow turkeys."

That's bull. I could totally follow turkeys when I was a child. And I was twenty before I caught a fish. Silly spammers.

I made all my phone calls. feels virtuous

Who wants to fill out my paperwork for my big allergist appointment tomorrow?

Who wants to fill out my paperwork for my big allergist appointment tomorrow?

Not me!

I don't think Emmett needs a reason to do stuff like the whitefont. But that is why I think I'd like him so much...I'd enjoy meeting him while I'm town. Maybe, huh?

Are you going to the Alcatraz thingie? Because Emmett will be doing that.

Big congratultions on the publishing news, erika. That's fantastic.

As long as I'm brain-dumping, I should mention the dream I had two nights ago, which I longed to tell about here but couldn't yet.

I was staying in a high-rise crummy hotel for a few days, trying to negotiate a place for Hec and Emmett and me to rent long-term, wandering around a grey industrial town to interview with potential landlords and then repair to my lonely digs in the dingy hotel. After one such interview, at which the skeevy Russian potential landlord's skeevy Russian son had stared hard at me the entire time, I came back to the hotel to find the phone ringing.

"Hello?"

"Ah, uh, hallo, Meees Smeiii. This is son of landlord. I vish to esk you, vill you come to my church this week to pray with me?"

"I beg your pardon, what?" (Why did I say that? I knew perfectly well what he was asking.)

"I vould like you at my church, with me, praying together. Will you go out to church with me?"

I drew myself up stiffly on the crummy little bed, even though he was on the other end of the phone and couldn't see me. "I beg your pardon, but I happen to be MARRIED. And PREGNANT."

There was a pause, then "GO WARRIORS!"

Following which he laboriously unpacked the metaphor, explaining that he did not mean to cheer on a professional sports team, but was speaking indirectly of my husband's vigorous sperm.

Last night, by way of contrast, I dreamed I went to Target and, after somebody else bumped into a display, folded towels. There was a moment of excitement when a colorful hot-air balloon landed in a shimmering pool outside, but it just turned out to be the beginning of a Tupperware demonstration.

I imagine my subconscious late last night rummaging through row after row of beat-up file cabinets, glancing wildly at the clock and muttering, "It's what o'clock? She's in REM again? Shit! Fuck! Shit!... Aaah, I got nothin'."