I can't hold my liquor.

Or at least, if I drank, I wouldn't be able to. Or my water, or my soda, or any other fluids. The word maternity is a misnomer. It should be called materni-PEE, because that's what you do every five minutes! There you are, happily engaged in some task, when Junior decides to tap-dance on your bladder. "La-dee-dah, happily typing away...Holy Bat, @#$%-Man! I gotta go!"

Could be worse. The kid could be sitting on your colon.

We spent about three hours today, sitting in a jam session. Himself played, I knit. Reynolds Kids "Play Time" in a nice corn yellow. Acrylic/wool blend, easy care, very soft. I finished the collar and several inches of a top-down raglan baby sweater, and might actually make some good progress before the old year passes. As long as I can stay focused on...oh, look! A chickadee!

Oh, well.

Christmas was a nice family affair, with chili, cornbread and gifts, plus music. Everything's back to its normal level of weirdness now, as an intercom exchange at Arby's will illustrate. The Pick Five menu offers the option to "upsize" certain items for a quarter, so we asked for that option on some potato cakes. The disembodied voice coming over the speaker seemed to be having trouble adding everything at once, and so informed us that the new total would be available when we pulled forward. But not quite in those words.

"Come around to the window and I'll adjust your thing."

Do what now?!?

I think we'll get the regular fries next time.