I know I’ve posted one of these before, but I feel like sometimes I don’t bore you with chronicle as many details about Sadie and her rapidly-changing little self as I’d like, and seeing as how I’m using this blog as a secondary, more profanity-heavy version of her baby book, it only seems right to insert an update about her every now and then.
That’s more like it.
Verdict: Not pink eye! Only sort of pink eye-ish, but we were sent home with eyedrops anyway, to make the other parents at daycare feel better. Nevermind that it’s always their adorable little bundles of dirty-ass germs that are always getting my kid sick (and my husband fucking hospitalized), but all’s fair in love and motha-fuckin’ daycare, homes.
Pretty sure Jay-Z said that.
Sorry, but I that was the first post title I could think of, and once you think of a title like that, you can’t very well un-think it, now can you? At least my Google search stats should be interesting this month. (And by the way, 4th Reader: I would totally do another Googlemania except that I have no material! The new website is still a little too new, it seems, to garner any good and truly fucked up search engine terms. Patience, my friend.)
Anyway, this is a quick placeholder post to let you know that we are getting ready to take Sadie to the pediatrician for what is very likely pink eye. PINK FUCKING EYE. As in conjunctivitis. As in the disease you get from, basically, poop particles in your eye. WHO WANTS TO COME VISIT?!?
I’ll be back later to bitch some more after we get an official diagnosis. In the meantime, I should tell you that –thanks to a story involving my friend Bird — I am unable to say “conjunctivitis” without pronouncing it in a flowery southern accent. This makes it all somewhat more bearable.
“CON-JUHNC-TA-VAAAA-TIS!”
Hmm. Wonder if that would work with other ailments…
“HAY-UM-ROIDS!”
Bingo.
Internet, I think it’s time for an intervention. It occurred to me this morning that lovely reader Cedar has sent me more than her fair share of forwards to be used in PAY IT FORWARD, and that can only mean one thing: there are WAY too many douchebags in the world who have her email address.
I have this problem too. I call it “work.”
I went on a lovely mid-day ice cream date with Mermanda yesterday, during which we talked about the joys of using technology to make you completely lose your shit and sob hysterically for 45 minutes. In other words, watching sad and/or sappy videos on the Internet, and ending up like this:
Pardon the terrible quality, and you will have to CRANK your speakers to be able to hear it, but TRUST ME: the 28-second mark is well worth it.
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