Debetesse in Bitches asking the questions we all want answers to:

Does transubstantiated bread count as carbs or protein?

Not a funny, but definitely worth preserving:

Deb in Great Write Way--

And trust me on this, because I have never not wowed people, not ever, not once in my life. And my superwomanness, when it comes to whatever I make, is about as relative as dust and about as insubstantial as a ray of moonlight. That stuff doesn't matter. It can only hinder.

Not easy, but true. The creation is the stuff that matters. Give it every weapon you can.

Jesse , in Natter:

And, after watching America's Next Top Model with two straight guys last night, I realized the full brilliance of the show -- it stereotypically appeals to EVERYONE. Straight women like examining other women, straight guys and lesbians like hot chicks, and gay guys like fashion and cattiness. It's perfect!

In Bitches:

Cindy talks about reading Bill Clinton's book, and provides the setup:

Dear Self,

Love,
You Know Who

Polter-Cow

Aaah! Voldemort's writing letters to Cindy!

Cindy

He's a lurker. He supports me in email. It's thing.

tommyrot:

::wonders what kind of computer and OS He Who Shall Not Be Named uses::

Natter:

Hil:

For some reason, I can't get to anywhere on the internet but here. Every other site I try, I'm getting a "page cannot be found" message.

tommyrot:

Obviously, George W Bush is controlling all the other internets for your own good.

ita:

Handsome president! Saved me from the internets!

Who says irony is dead?

Tommyrot:

"PUBLIC SPLIT ON WHETHER BUSH IS A DIVIDER"
- CNN Scrolling Banner, 15 Oct 2004.

The betting heats up in the miracleborn baby pool:

brenda m - Put me down for the 27th. 7lbs 4 oz. And no tentacles.

lexine - Well, we do know the baby is a girl.

I can't believe one COMM'd this already.

Trudy Booth: Hello muskrat my old friend...

Topic!Cindy: I've come to smell your musk again

Trudy Booth: Because a rodent softly-y creeping

Topic!Cindy: Left its musk while I was sleeping

-t: Oh the words of the muskrats are written on the subway walls

Cindy in Bitches:

Now, you must understand, I don't *stay* up. It's a thing. If you see me here at 3 or 4 in the morning, I have not stayed up, but rather, have gotten up, and have a decent amount of sleep under my belt. And yet? I am not nearly the woman I used to be.

I used to stay up all night, without--I might add--the aid of any illicit chemical enhancement (although I did not eschew caffeine, it wasn't necessary). Until Benjamin was born, I could stay up later than any of you, and outperform you the next day, to boot. Sleep--like a balanced diet and smoke-free air--was for babies, the ill, and the elderly...and sissies.

Even then--even once Benjamin was born--heck even through my pregnancy with, and the delivery of, recovery from, and 2/3s of the infancy of Julia--I was Night!Woman. As long as I napped when they napped, I could handle anything that happened during the day. And if my husband took the first post-dawn feeding, nothing could even slow me down, never mind stop me. When darkness fell, my super powers could not be contained!

Then, when Julia was just about eight months old, Christopher was conceived. I am fairly convinced that if we were allowed to peer deep in the depths of his stocky little frame, we would find...kryptonite.

Now, just between you and me, and as you may well have expected, all Red Sox fans are born with a little red kryptonite, somewhere deep inside. It lies dormant from November until Spring training, and slowly grows more and more powerful, reaching its peak in Oct*ber. That's really all there is to the secret of our sad, sad loyalty. Parenthood only compounds this poison's seemingly seasonal side-effects. Lack of sleep doesn't help one withstand the taint of the red kryptonite, but I could still survive on a couple of hours, and have Lex Luthor in lock-up by lunch. I was just a little crankier about it, than before.

It's a well known fact that the New York Yankees have some custom made mix of blue kryptonite stirred into the dye that gives their pinstripes color. Before as many big games as not, George Steinbrenner works some sort of dark mojo on the time-space continuum, and turns opposing teams (and usually their fans--you can tell by the Man-In-the-Street interviews) into Bizarro creatures. This is the secret to the Yankees success.

And I myself, like my mother before me, have a whit of white kryptonite, in place of any green thumb due us from our forebears (although now that I think about it, most of our family surnames are occupational names like Hunter, Stuart, etc., so it is possible our more traceable ancestors were similarly affected).

All children possess dormant gold kryptonite, and it is up to the child, or perhaps forces beyond his control, whether or not it is activated. If you've been paying any attention at all to Deena's posts, I'm not telling you anything new. At most, I am confirming your suspicions.

But, as sad as I am to be making this confession, I must tell you that my darling Christopher has, somewhere inside his beautiful little person, classic green kryptonite. Now my old friend Kal-El may think, and may want you to think, that he is the only superhero affected by this scourge, but don't believe the hype.

Look back, if you will, at my account of Christopher sneaking out of the house, and scaring me half to death. Did I recover upon finding him? I think not. In fact, after I (continued...)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Topic!Cindy - Oct 18, 2004 8:01:39 am PDT #2455 of 2842 Does my ass look big enough in these jeans? --lisah

( continues...) found him, and hugged him as if to never let him go (split infinitives be damned), I was as weak as a proverbial kitten.

Now, Christopher is a very sweet boy. I do not think he is aware of this damnably dastardly dynamism deep down in his depths. Either someone else is controlling the emission of the evil emerald essence which envenoms my environment, or it is the result some natural, bio-chemical reaction (continued...)

( continues...) beyond his control. But a year+ later, I still have dreams about losing him, and when I wake and run to his room to make sure he is still there, I am nearly slain.

Even on the best days, Christopher releases trace amounts of the green kryptonite into the atmosphere. I can get through the days, even start them early, but since his birth, Night!Woman has been nigh catatonic.

Last night, working with only the faintest sense-memory of my lost super powers, I at first, resisted even watching the game. I surfed the internet for a little while, stopping at my usual haunts. The Sox were far enough behind that my poor old husband was more than willing to bid this season goodbye, and watch Jack and Bobby. And we didn't start watching Jack and Bobby, until Jack and Bobby was well over. We'd recorded it on TiVo, and only tuned into it, we'd done all of our nightly chores, such that we could go to bed earlyish, knowing we were well rested, and ready to face Monday, and once my poor old husband *thought* he had the '04 Red Sox out of his system.

When we finished watching the recording of Jack and Bobby, Scott turned the channel, thinking he'd find the final score, or happen on the last couple of minutes of mourning. Oh, you can say nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition, or nobody expects the apocalypse, but c'mon, that's just hyperbole. What nobody expects--really--is that nine consecutive innings of baseball will take four hours and twenty minutes. And nobody expects an ACLS play-off game to go five hours and two minutes, total. Nobody expects Lowe, Timlin, Foulke, Embree, and Leskanic (!) to keep the Evil Empire at bay for so long, either.

I would say that after hours facing the seemingly invincible Mariano Rivera, what absolutely nobody expects any of the Sox--even David Ortiz--to send a Paul Quantrill pitch sailing into the Yankee bullpen, driving himself and Manny Ramirez before him, home, for a win. In game four. After losing the first three. Since I didn't see it myself, I'd say it was a media trick, and I was vulnerable because of my long-term exposure to green kryptonite, but...

But.

But.

If I'd said that, I'd either be lying, or out of Red Kryptonite Kool-Aid. Because we do--expect it, that is. We hope against hope, and believe in the face of improbable odds and three consective humiliations.

I'd say more, but five o'clock fast approaches, and I've got to refill my cup.