Okay, so I stole this from another blogger (Fugly Horse of the Day), but that’s okay. I’m going to post it anyways. Let’s hear it for plagiarism!
It may take a bit to load, but don’t lose patience. It’s worth the wait!
First, some background information:
This is what a “boppy” looks like:
Every night after feeding him, I lay the sleeping Dragonmonkey down in the middle of his boppy— right beside the tag that says something like”NO SLEEP! DO NOT ALLOW BABY TO SLEEP ON THE BOPPY” in huge red letters. I’m not sure how it reads… I haven’t exactly paid attention. What a wonderful mother I am.
So there he sleeps, crammed up against the furthest side of our bed, his boppy smushed up against the wall so that I have maximum leg space on the bed. Did I mention what a great mom I am?
Rooming-in with your baby is a highly controversial topic. For those of you out there who have no idea what “rooming-in” means, it’s exactly what it sounds like: keeping the baby in the room with you at night.
Proponents claim that it’s easier to breastfeed at night, and that it promotes bonding.
Opponents contend that both parents and baby sleep less, and that it’s detrimental to a marriage. There’s also a chance that you could roll over in your sleep and squish your kid. Seriously. It’s happened.
Frankly, I could give a flying fig about what proponents and opponents argue about. The Dragonmonkey not only sleeps in the room with The Bean and I, he sleeps on the bed with us.
This is not because I am trying to bond with the Dragonmonkey. No, I’m not nearly so maternal. I do it because I am WAY too lazy to haul my flubbery heiny all the way to another room every time the Dragonmonkey begins his nightly wailing. Unfortunately, as our bedroom is pathetically tiny, the only place for him to sleep is on the bed.
Okay, you guys need to know one last piece of information before I can finish up my story. I recently dyed my hair red in an attempt to look more like this:
Heck, I would have even settled for this:
Unfortunately, while the dye job did turn out okay, it left me feeling a little more like this:
Still, I wasn’t complaining. Even looking like a Peggy Bundy was a step-up from what I have been feeling like lately. Anyhow, now that you know all the pertinent details, let me explain what happened to me this morning. This morning, I was feeling… errr… well, romantic. As in, I felt like, uhhh… you know. Cuddling with my husband. Maybe it was the new hair-do, maybe it was simple deprivation… who knows? All I know is that I was feeling, for lack of a better term, frisky.
So I decided to do something about it.
I wiped under my eyes to make sure there wasn’t any left-over mascara that had travelled south sometime during the night, took a sip of water to chase away morning breath, and ran a hand through my newly-reddened hair.
There. Everything was ready. Propping myself up on an elbow, I rolled over and reached a hand out towards The Bean…
and saw THIS staring at me from the boppy at the foot of the bed:
Now I know the real reason against rooming-in.
So, everybody gets stupid spam messages.
No matter how careful you are, I’m pretty sure it’s inevitable. Frankly, I think the whole cliche about death and taxes being the only sure thing should be amended. Something about spam emails should find its way in there, somehow.
I’ve decided that rather than fight the whole idea, I might as well amuse myself. Besides, it’s fairly easy to do. I mean, the computer-generated names that the emails claim to be from? They’re friggin’ AWESOME!
Some of those names are quite pretty. In fact, now that I think about it.. maybe this is where famous actors/actresses get their stage names from. Think about it:
I don’t know about you, but those two lists seem suspiciously similar. Hmmm.
Okay, and I know it’s totally uncouth to actually mention the off-color topics that are emailed to me… And I know I should just delete them without actually reading what they’re talking about… But come on….. This stuff is actually funny!
Let’s take the email from the above Coleman Riggs. It’s entitled Re: important. Seriously, if it’s important, we should open it right? So we will… and this is what we find inside:
Shell want to see if Sheldon really turned into Luciano Pavarotti, or if it just sounds that way. She walked up the side lawn to the cellar bulkhead which was almost directly below Pauls window. Each drop sparkled as it fell onto a narrow canal of ice which lay at the base of the barns side. Along with dirty birdie and fiddle-de-foof and all the others which Im sure will come up in time.
I mean, I can see how it might be important to see if Sheldon really does turn into Lucian Pavarotti, but why is Shell standing below Paul’s window? And where does the barn suddenly come from… And fiddle-de-foof? Dirty birdie? Huh? Now I’m really lost.
Right beneath this I can see excerpts from the three following messages:
Farm Passion Without Any Limits
Gillespie? The cop said, his pierced back arched….
Aerobomb orbicular fantastic
Yes. That’s right. Not only can I click on the first link and follow my inner longing to enjoy the beauty of Farm Passion, but on this site, it’s Passion Without Any Limits. I can’t help it. I almost want to click on it. I’m having visions of chickens boldly throwing aside societies’ conventions and tenderly making out with their sheep neighbors. Society be damned! This is love, cluck cluck!
I’m sure the reality of what’s on that site is much worse than that, but I still have to admit I’m intrigued.
And as for that Aerobomb orbicular fantastic… I think I’m actually going to include that one on
this year’s Christmas List. I don’t know what it is, but it sounds cool!
What about that police officer with the pierced back who’s hiccuping out “Gillespie”? Well, maybe I’ll just leave him alone. He kind of scares me.
There are many things in life that don’t go together.
Oil and water.
Sleep and a newborn baby.
Peace and the middle east.
And this combination of art posters I found on amazon.com:
Yes. Yes, that’s always what I look for in tandem: A poster of cute little baby animals, and a poster of an angry pack of wolves tearing apart a frantic horse. Thank heavens I don’t have to worry about purchasing them separately anymore. Phew.