Congrats, Kalshane!

Man, this spring and summer is going to be busy with small bewildered new people. I think I need a spreadsheet.

Talking to my brother last night, he said his wife is FOUR months along. If he was correct (he can be, um, fluid with dates and times) that means SIL was 2 months or more pregnant before they figured it out. Which. Um. In any case, this pregnancy has been much easier on her than the first.

When I was at the bookstore today, I asked if they could look up a couple books to see if they had them. They didn't, but offered to order them, which I politely declined. You could practically see the fine! I know you are going to go buy them online you jerk! form over the clerk's head. It was kinda sad.

Hey, have y'all heard of Flanimals? My brother was telling me about a book, so I got him one he doesn't have, for his birthday. Have to track down the other. Turns out, he reads it to D and they both make up new ones and lose their shit. That kid is going to be seriously twisted, continuing in the grand family tradition...

I hadn't, but now I want to get one for my niece.

I wonder if there is someone who delivers alcohol and chocolate. I need both as I am stressing about finances. But it is dark and icy out and I don't want to drive anywhere.

I'm catching up on this week's Bones.

For an episode that started out as good and creepy, it ended up being very predictable. I knew it was the brother from the first minute he was on the screen.

I still thought it was good and creepy.

Possibly because I watched it right before I went to bed. And sadly I have no Hodgins to help me through it.

Oh the beginning definitely was, sumi, and the very end. In between was eh.

Oy. Oy. I am temporarily kravved out. Teaching at 11:30 and administering a test from 1:30 to about 7:00. Which means I got to teach the entire yellow belt syllabus in quick succession. While being evaluated.

Oy. Need lying down.

Kalshane! Daddy! Cool.

While I am completely besotted with my lemon pound cake a reviewer (see, I'm sharing) said it could be moister. Hrrm. I followed the CI recipe pretty much to a tee (shorted it by ¼ cup of sugar). I can't work out what to tweak. Take it out of the oven a touch earlier?

I wish we could just be beautiful as individuals. Not because we conform to a set of ideals like a show dog, but because we are beautiful as ourselves.

Not to pick on you, because this is more something I've been mulling over for a while... but I'd rather we just stop making the idea of beauty so powerful. Some people are beautiful. Some people are smart. Some people are tall. Some people are blonde. You know? I'm not beautiful. I can be kinda pretty, with effort. I can be sexy, but that's easier. I'd like to be considered beautiful, but obviously not enough to do everything it would take, so I guess it's really more of a wish than a priority. I mean, we don't go around claiming, "Everyone's tall in their own way." Responding to "I'm beautiful and you're not" with "everyone's beautiful in their own way" seems like buying into the idea that it's terribly important that we all be beautiful. I feel like it'd be better to say, "Yup. So? That's not the end-all be-all."

Note: I am nowhere near as well-adjusted about this as I'm making it sound, but that's kind of my point. I think.

When I was a wee bairn, I was ugly. My mother is a terribly practical sort, so she admitted this with the sort of precision that included mentioning my (somewhat uncanny, for a little black girl) resemblace to Mao Tse Tung (which explains why I knew what the Little Red Book was at a very young age--I even tried to read it, since we had one in the house my mother used to illustrate her point. Boring.).

She told me, she told others, she had no reluctance.

My little sister was a terribly cute baby. All dimples and smiles and loose curls where I was snarls and frowns and bald patches on my scalp. She had the professional pictures taken of her, looking coyly out from underneath the blanket.

Thing is, my mother never played favourites. She had an ugly kid and a cute kid, but what she really had was two daughters. I could be ugly and her daughter and she really only cared about the latter designation.

It made me nonchalant about looks from a very young age. It took society to tell me it mattered, but I liked my mother more, so I stuck to her version of the story.

Pretty is pretty. Pretty is fun to look at. But that's what pretty's for. Looking at. If you don't let it, it doesn't do much else.