Blogging diarrhea

Sorry to invoke the mental image of runny feces. It's not the kindest word to spring on you, I know. Nor is feces I suppose.

I feel this blog is dying a slow death for many reasons, but I'm going to just keep talking even if it's just the same handful of you that are listening. I have thought about some things to write, but as they are generally too brief to address in individual posts, I'm throwing them all on this one.

First of all - forgetfulness. Was this stage not to disappear once P emerged from the womb? If anything I'm more forgetful than when I was pregnant, and I was really absent-minded then. In the past few weeks I have locked us out of our building, as well as leaving my wallet at Starbucks. There have been other stupid things I have done due to my lack of connecting thoughts, but they have little influence on anyone else so I tend to...forget them.

Locking us out of our building meant that we had to ring up my brother-in-law, a house painter, and get him to drive into the city with his big ladder. Said big ladder was then extended to its maximum length and propped up on our bathroom window (on the second floor) which just happened to be open. Two days later was the wallet-leaving incident at Starbucks, which necessitated me running back there right before closing time to, much relieved that some honest soul turned it in rather than going wild with my Boots Advantage card and my work ID. God forbid someone should get 5 loyalty points from Boots, or check out books at the uni library in my name.

The irony here is that there was another incident of forgetfulness that happened just yesterday, yet I almost forgot to mention it. Ha. I walked out of a shop without paying for milk. Just like that. I put it in the folded back hood of P's stroller and just walked on out. I only realised when I was two buildings down, and felt something cold and wet when I moved to extend the hood. Oops. Like a good girl I went back in and paid for it, and thankfully no one noticed that I walked into the store with milk that I had yet to pay for. Believe it or not I have a fairly responsible job and I'm also responsible for the life of a small child. So yeah, I don't know if you know this, but I'm kind of a big deal around here.

I can't bring myself to call it "mommy brain", as that elicits a feeling of self-loathing in the pit of my stomach for even daring to use such a cliche. I might as well start gushing about baby dust, people who are preggers, and sticky embies. Suffice it to say, I'm forgetting some shit. There.

Apropos of nothing, I had another dream about Paul Rudd last night. I love Paul Rudd dearly as he is adorable and all, but he's so not my type. Paul Rudd takes you to the theatre. Paul Rudd happily spends hours listening to your mom talk about your childhood. Paul Rudd writes you poems. Paul Rudd does not shove you up against the wall and have his very dirty, aggressive wicked way with you. Paul Rudd does not look like he could bite a man's ear off and spit it back in his face. Basically, Paul Rudd is not him. Or him. In my dream Paul and I were running away together, but there was no sex. Well, unless I forgot it.

I spent 15 minutes trying to find the picture of Joaquin that I linked to but it was worth it in the end. If my dreams are about him tonight, you can bet we are having sex. Great sex. Toe-curlingly fantastic sex. I can't even think about that photograph because The Dude is sitting in the same room as I am and that's just plain wrong. But oh, to be the owner of that thigh...