Spellbound

This morning I sat slack-jawed for a full, oh, I don’t know, twenty minutes or so, glazed over and positively enthralled by the infomercial for the Cricut (pronounced “CRICKET,” which I never would have guessed) Expressions paper cutter. The first five minutes were spent in ridiculous disbelief that anyone would want to fake-etch glass with some kind of faux varnish using patterns on a paper cutter, but by the time the last fifteen rolled around, I was not only considering “etching” some kind of commemorative plate of my own, but was ALSO wondering why I hadn’t yet taken up scrapbooking as a hobby when the Cricut made it so easy! And fun! And would UNLEASH MY CREATIVITY!

There’s a reason infomercials are on in the wee hours of the morning, because that’s when your defenses are down. Had the Cricut not been — oh my God — FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS, I could see how I could have lazily convinced myself over coffee that now that I was in breeding mode, my children’s lives needed to be documented with fancy paper cutouts of diapers and baby bottles adorned with parchment curlicues. This is reminiscent of the time back when Adam and I first started dating (at the tender age of 23, oh my God) and we stayed up far too late smoking cigarettes and doing God knows what and watched a full thirty minutes of an infomercial for a five-disc collection of Stevie Wonder’s greatest hits. Now, I like — nay, LOVE — Stevie Wonder as much as the next person, but I didn’t need five full discs of his early greats, nor did I need to put a RUSH ORDER on it, which we did, oh yes, my friends, YES WE DID. FOR AN EXTRA THIRTEEN DOLLARS AND NINETY FIVE CENTS.

Speaking of Adam, he was working from home yesterday while Sam and I were out, and when I came home, he was practically shivering from half-watching Oprah and the lady who was mauled by the chimpanzee. I don’t even know how it happened, but somehow the conversation broke down and we were almost fighting — yes, FIGHTING — because he kept insisting that if his face were to be ripped off from a rogue chimpanzee, he wouldn’t want to live, and I should just pull the plug and say no no, don’t sew over his eyeball sockets, please, just LET HIM DIE. And *I* was DEVASTATED by this, because DON’T LEAVE ME, ADAM and I hovered thisclose to tears, because I don’t CARE if he doesn’t have a face, HE IS STILL HIM AND I LOVE HIM. Aaaand, I do believe that’s when we realized that no, seriously, the chances of his face being eaten off by a chimp are … well, significantly less than zero, but if it happens, you heard it here first, folks: Adam doesn’t want his eyeballs sewn over.

And now, three bits of nothingness before the weekend:

- Sam cut a second tooth last night and let me tell you, I stopped feeling sorry for myself and started seriously pitying HER around 10:30 p.m. when she was CLEARLY trying SO HARD to go to sleep, and yet the pain was bugging her shit right out. The pathetic whimpering! Putting her head down, then popping it up and looking around in desperation! Oh, poor baby. All pity was left by the wayside, however, when at 5 a.m. like FRACKING CLOCKWORK, the kid blew out another diaper, and seriously, if anyone knows how I can stop this phenomenon and make her take care of the business, I don’t know, EARLIER IN THE DAY, I will take suggestions. The pattern is this: if she goes during dinner (appetizing!), we’re good for the night. If she doesn’t, we’re very likely effed effed EFFED. (KID GOES A ZILLION TIMES A DAY OMG).

(SORRY FOR POOP TALK)

- I started Grave Sight, from Charlaine Harris’s Harper Connelly series, and dude, I really like it. It’s fluffy and light and totally frivolous, but while I have begun reading again (and rather voraciously at that), I don’t see myself delving into anything super-heavy for quite some time. And by “heavy” I don’t mean in topic, I mean using things like big words and esoteric concepts or anything resembling literature I’m supposed to feel DEEPLY about and DECONSTRUCT. Those days, ladies and gentlemen, are over. And I am RELIEVED.

- Am I the only one taking totally perverse pleasure in the minor downfall of the Real Housewives of Orange County? Those bitches lived WAY TOO LARGE for way too long, and this, my friends, this is what happens when your entire self-worth is tied up into diamonds and a 9,000-square-foot house. Marriages crumble! Houses are in peril! And there I am, like an asshole, gleefully clapping my hands. Please note, this does not fall under NaNiceMo. I know, it’s probably CHEATING.

Happy weekend, y’all!

*Siouxsie and the Banshees

36 comments November 12th, 2009