Head-banging fun

$*#&.

It's Pulmicort season. Q's front and center in the celebrations. There goes my head on the keyboard again. Bam, bam, bam. I feel like my eyeballs are being scooped out. Wah. The upside of this is that it could provide reason to have him classified as medically fragile and thereby eligible for pre-school services coming from the school district to the house. I don't know yet if that's good or not.

That pretty much exhausts that topic. So on to other things, then.

Have you noticed how nice it is to be you? I've heard lately from just about everyone (female) I know that things are good where they are, at least in terms of self-acceptance and erm, lustiness. Before I embarrass myself entirely (blushing), let's just acknowledge that this age, stage, whatever it is, is not what most of us expected and we're pretty happy about, um, certain parts of that. Other parts, perhaps not so much, but our physical selves? It's good. Gentlemen? If you're out there? And looking? Skip over the twenty-somethings (unless you're married to one) and go court a middler-aged female person (especially if she's your wife -- smack -- what're you doing here anyway?). She's got life pretty well together by now, is still full of surprises, and it only gets better from here. Or so I'm told. Maybe it's the whole long-term monogamy thing that has the collective us so happy... Hmm. There's a thought. In which case, I don't know what to tell you. Perhaps it explains itself.

Back to the eyeballs being scooped out. Big day tomorrow and we've been running pretty hard all week, and sick at that. I'm heading for bed, or at least a more horizontal position, since the Q is out (thank God).

Hope your weekend is lovely and includes (yawn) lots of R and R. If your "R" happens to be past PG-13? Yay for you. Don't tell me about it anymore, though, m'kay? I'm maxed out on those conversations for awhile.

XO