Okay, this time, Death Wish is definitely up to something.

No matter how much you might try to justify it, singing Baby Got Back to an actual baby is pretty trashy.

Only a short post today due to unfathomable quantities of work that I’ve procrastinated on almost to the point of mootness (is mootness a word?), but the two-toned mole is just a two-toned mole! Hurrah!

Tonight The Wookiee and I will celebrate with one of the twelve bottles of wine that The Wookiee’s Dad sent to us after he cleaned out his basement. Which, come to think of it, is also cause for celebration. Hurrah again!

Robin G: We’re stealing Momma’s parking space,
parking space, parking space,
We’re stealing Momma’s parking space,
All the live-long day!

Why do we steal the parking space?
Parking space, parking space?
Why do we steal the parking space?
So we don’t have to walk!

The Gambit: *burbles*

Robin G: Fine, then, you come up with something.

I gaped at the expense total. “Seventeen hundred?“

The mechanic nodded sagely. “Yes.” Then he spent fifteen minutes explaining why if we didn’t get everything wrong on our car fixed right that second, we would most assuredly be taking our lives into our hands.

“But it’s just a squeak! Which part of this is the squeak?”

He pointed to a few items at the top of the list, totaling about two hundred dollars.

“So… I’ll get the squeak fixed. The car won’t burst into flames if we drive it off the lot, right?”

“No, but…” He trailed off ominously.

I do not have the credit score for a car loan. I do not have the money to buy a new car outright. AND I don’t have the money for $1700 of repairs. Instead, I shall throw myself on the mercy of The Organizer’s mechanic, and pray that he can get this done more cheaply.

This has been a tiring month.

A few weeks ago, a whole collection of my characters went to hang out at the house of The Organizer. A mutual friend was there, along with her 15 month old son. He was cute, charming, and adorable — all the things you expect a 15 month old to be. It’s a great age. It’s also a very high energy age, and the boy zoomed around the place non-stop all evening. At times he broke the sound barrier.

Chuckling, The Wookiee and I returned home. Horror flooded me as I opened the door. “Oh, crap.”

“What?” The Wookiee said.

“In one year, The Gambit will be 15 months old.”

“Yes…”

I gestured into the apartment. “LOOK at this place.”

“Oh,” said The Wookiee, glancing around at the piles of books and old mail on the chairs, the swords on the wall, the laundry spilling out of the bedroom. “Huh.”

I’ve spent most of the last week picking up trash, organizing surfaces, sorting books and clothes, washing dishes, and scouring the place of filth. It’s what I generally do in the spring when I first open all the windows, but it didn’t happen this year (I prefer to blame medication adjustment instead of admitting my laziness). The Gambit is still a few months away from any sort of mobility, but when he manages it, he’s a lot less likely to suffocate in a cat-fur tumbleweed.

All that’s left is the bathroom. *straps on hazard suit* Wish me luck.

Boundary Issues intently watches a bug on the wall. Then waits for someone else to kill it.

I can prove that a duck is not a fish, but that does not mean the duck is a whale.

“So there’s this little mole I’ve been worrying about,” I tell the doctor after he finishes his ten minute story about the time he and his wife swam with dolphins.

He pulls out a magnifying glass and examines the spot, which is on my shoulder and about the size of a pencil eraser. “Hrm. It’s two-toned. You say it’s new?”

“Yeah,” I say. “About the last year and a half. It’s been getting very slowly bigger, and it wasn’t two-toned at first.”

“Ah. Well, it’s probably nothing, but I don’t like two-toned moles. We’ll take it and run a biopsy, if you don’t mind having a little scar on your shoulder. On a pale girl like you it shouldn’t show up too badly.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” I assure him. “I’ve got lots of scars. They’re conversation points. I’m not vain.”

“Okay then,” the doctor says. “The cauterization won’t leave much. It will be very tiny.”

“Cauterization?” I say. “Ha ha.”

HE WASN’T KIDDING. HE FRIED MY SHOULDER LIKE A CREME BRULEE.

I can’t tell if it’s the Novocain or the smell of my own burning flesh that’s given me such a stomachache, but I think I’m going to spend the rest of the afternoon puking, if no one minds.

I’ve been exhausted for the last few days, which is the main reason I missed an update. (The other reason is because someone — and I don’t want to name names, here — decided to nap erratically.) I wish I could justify this exhaustion, but I can’t put my finger on the cause. I’ve been working harder, both with The Gambit and my other job, but doing more work usually gives me more energy. Same with cleaning. I actually scrubbed the cabinets. The Wookiee nearly died of shock. I’m dieting lightly, but that’s actually meant I’ve been eating regular, square meals. I’m getting to bed and waking up at a reasonable hour. Yet, here I am, barely able to keep my eyes open, bursting into tears and temper tantrums at the slightest provocation, and generally making a nuisance of myself.

I really don’t get it, but I hope it straightens out soon.