The Witching Hour

Yep, still procrastinating on the editing thing. Working my way up to it. Wishing for enough energy to take a shower, is more like it. It's now 8:50 p.m., andthe boy has been down for about an hour, and I just got done watching "Mulholland Drive" (and then looking up on the Internet the meaning for the plot, since I'm not as quick as I thought - Jesus, I want whatever David Lynch is taking - and yet, it was really good, for all of my 'what the f---?' ranting). And I'm waiting for my husband to get home. Because he's got to placate the masses, or, as he said to me on the phone "tie up loose ends before he goes away." Yeah, I know it's only a one-night trip to Santa Monica for him (so he can work on some financing deal for his new project), but still -- and here comes the pity party, people -- why am I always a loose end that can be left hanging? Eh? Bastards. No, not him; I'm talking about the whiny idiots that can't manage to do anything without passing some kind of buck on to my partner. Grubby mooches. Time suckers. Ack, don't get me started. Well, that's it; I've officially riled myself up enough to take a shower. Which I had to clean again for the fiifth time in seven days because the boy likes to poop in there. Yes, that's right, Kane, my little perfect Boo-Boo; you let it rip inn many ways in the water. You are an aquatic danger. And if I have to disenfect your tub toys one more time, they will permanently smell like Lysol. And because these pages may be printed and saved for posterity, if I feel particularly moved by the Hewlett-packard spirits, I won't even mention how many times your poop reveals whole fruits. Nope, I won't mention it, because goodness knows, if a Significant Other someday reads these passages, you might blush. And a mother would never want to do that to her baby boy. Just like she wouldn't mention how cute she thinks her son's little butt is, no matter what happens in the tub. Nope, that would embarrass him. Whoops.