minalisms

I did not pee on a stick this weekend as I said I would. I’m putting it off because I think it’s too soon.

There, see. I’m not keeping you in suspense any more than myself. So I’ll report back on this matter in a future post, when I deem it to be appropriate. Because, as I conveyed to my friend, shortly after Thursday’s post, I remembered that sometimes it’s best to zip it.

In other news, I also did not spend a ludicrous amount of money on clothing as I had intended, so my checking and savings accounts remain intact. Thank you, logic.

A young boy enters a barbershop and the barber whispers to his customer, “This is the dumbest kid in the world. Watch while I prove it to you.”

The barber puts a dollar bill in one hand and two quarters in the other, then calls the boy over and asks, “Which do you want, son?”

The boy takes the quarters and leaves.

“What did I tell you?” said the barber. “That kid never learns!”

Later, when the customer leaves, he sees the same young boy coming out of an ice cream store. “Hey, son! May I ask you a question? Why did you take the quarters instead of the dollar bill?”

The boy licks his cone and replies, “Because the day I take the dollar, the game will be over!”

Something has been up with me this week. Have you read the recent blog posts? It’s evident that I’ve been a basket case.

If I were to let you peek at the data within my nifty ovulation app for the iPhone (Should I have admitted that? But I am so 3003!), you’d see that my moods these past three days were “gloomy,” “weepy” and “sad.”

So there will be a few things happening between now and Sunday to help me snap out of this fog — things that will involve rigorous exercise, unapologetic shopping and a pregnancy test.

I had one of the more scarily bizarre dreams of my lifetime last night.

I know, you don’t so much care to read about another’s dream. Because, if you’re anything like me, you’re curious about just how scary/bizarre it is but know better than to ask for a play-by-play about something that, inevitably, is wholly uninteresting and anticlimactic .

But I dreamed last night that Ben and I had a baby; the most adorable little girl with dark hair and big brown eyes who looked more like an 8-month-old by the time we brought her home, which (surprise!), wasn’t our home at all.

I was calling my baby by three different names — Brooke, Gus and Asha — and growing frustrated by those who called her by the wrong name. This detail, I believe, symbolizes my control issues.

Anyway, I started nursing my baby for the first time, and somehow the act of breast-feeding was the easiest thing I could have done, which I’m sure is a statement my mom-friends who nursed their real-life kids would guffaw at.

Once she was fed and burped, I placed Brooke-Gus-Asha into her bassinet and walked away. I don’t know how much time elapsed, but I thought I heard cooing sounds so I went to check on her. As I peered at her face, I discovered that she was very much not cooing but choking on milk she had spit up.

And so I saved her.

I quickly yet calmly picked up my dream-induced daughter and patted her back  to clear her throat. Her breathing steadied.

I saved her. I saved her even though seeing her choke would’ve been the precise moment I’d shake myself awake from a nightmare — when all seems hopeless.

Today, I noticed another one of my shoes had a broken heel, making this the second pair in three months that must be fixed or thrown out.

“Great, now I have to go shoe shopping,” I complained.

Wait, what did I just say?

But it’s true. I couldn’t care less about shopping for new duds. I’m not the least bit intrigued about this season’s fall boots or want to stock up on fuzzy sweaters and wool skirts. I stopped caring about fashion about a year ago. That’s why I rotate through the same three work pants every week. On weekends, I stand inside my closet and stare; yet nothing inspires me, so I pull out something drab yet comfortable and conclude, “I don’t care. Who really cares? I don’t care!!”

This is depressing me.

I want my vanity back. I want back the part of me that didn’t mind the fuss of makeup and dress-up. Bring back the girl who invested in herself — With time and money and confidence.