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‘Poor Baby’ Party

So there’s this Jennifer Crusie book, I can’t remember which one, in which the women of the book throw a “Poor Baby Party” for one of their number who got dumped. Basically, you eat ice cream, drink wine, and end each sentence with “Poor baby.”

It’s Monday morning and I’m throwing myself a poor baby party.

I’m sick and I’m tired of being sick.

I’m tired and I’m sick of being tired.

I’m fat. I’m sick of being fat.

I’m poor. I’m sick of being poor.

I’m not getting to go to NYC with The BFF because of the above. I may not get to go to Cider Day for the same reason.
In the battle between “time for myself” and “clean house”, “clean house” seems to win more often than not and yet my bathtub is still skanky.

The Husband has it worse off than I do, and is bearing up with more equanimity, which makes me feel like a weenie.

My cat is sick and throwing up. My daughter is a toddler and still poops in her pants. I’m tired of dealing with other creatures’ excrement.

Thanks to the fact that I’m sick, my stomach is a little tricky lately. Which, when combined with the fat thing and the poor thing, means that one of my great pleasures in life — food — isn’t really all that right now. Or, if it is all that, it’s combined with massive guilt.

I’ve got ten books started and none of them really grab my interest.  The new Laurell K. Hamilton is due out tomorrow and it’s probably gonna suck (all her books have sucked lately). And none of my other authors have books coming out anytime soon. So there goes another great pleasure.

Finally, it’s going to hit 81 fucking degrees today. Halloween is a week away and it’s going to be in the 80s.  Global warming sucks.

Okay, I’m done. I feel better, believe it or not.

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Categories: poor baby, weight
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