I'm listening to Sam Cook right now, and that has nothing to do with this pointless post.

My mom's here still. She's watching Quinn right now while I get my fix. I mean write. It was an entirely uneventful weekend so don't expect a surprising Murder She Wrote twist or anything like that. Quinn had a high fever Friday night and Saturday, so we sat around staring at him and commenting on how hot he was for a couple days. Jim bbq'd a chicken. My mom played Mah Jong on the computer. Madeleine raced around the house with her stuffed ponies strapped into her baby stroller. I wandered from room to room checking on the status of the festivities, occasionally commenting to whomever that the baby was hot. Did that sound whiny? It was actually nice. Comfortable.

Do you want to see the new room? The carpet was finished just in time, Jim moved in the bed (and made it! can you imagine?), and Madeleine and I picked out a lamp and a couple stinky candles which were promptly moved out of the room when their stinkiness was revealed, and my mom (Sheila, if you're wondering) nestled in. She insists it's comfy, but I find it a little frightening in a Blair Witch Project kind of way. Tell me what you think of this color scheme, and remember, it must match the (gag, gag, wretch) berber. Which is laughable because the berber looks like vomited oatmeal, and what doesn't match that?


Yesterday I tried to get my tickets to B-List Blogfest and my shit credit card company wouldn't let me fly out of anywhere except Seattle or Portland, and the closest I could get to our Top Secret Destination was a 5 hour drive. This shit company I've paying exhorbitant fees to for the last 6 years so that eventually I would get a free plane ticket has effectively stuck its finger in my eye. Screw you Chase. I'm cutting up my card right now, even though it has a really pretty picture of my college bell tower on it. (I got sucked in because of this fact. Go ahead, laugh, but the bell tower is really pretty. And you may have realized I have a thing for the pretty-pretty.)

Okay, I can hear the vertebrae in my mom's back compressing from the weight of my baby (did I tell you how hot he feels?), so I'm going to give her a break. Tomorrow morning she leaves, and today we'll spend some time arranging for some chiropractic care after she gets off the plane in Portland.