Monday, January 19, 2009


Since Her Majesty has been on the IR lately with what we're calling the "Plague of 2009," yours truly has been seriously busy on board. In the last two uber-productive days, I have done the dishes, some laundry, ginned up a gluten/dairy/rice-free pie, baked yet another pie absolutely packed - packed, I tell you - with gluten and dairy, attended to the Captain's every need (ok, almost every need), trimmed the hedges, cleaned out the amazingly funky garage, removed a 40'x60' tarp (!) by my lonesome from the backyard, removed assorted junk and materials leftover from construction, pruned some trees... all that and a bag of chips.

I wish I would have had video of the tarp-folding fiasco. I opened up what my dad would call a hornet's nest (that's the East Texan equivalent for Pandora's Box). Next time I'll know better: (1) Get large piece of cardboard (2) Write "FREE 40X60 TARP" on said cardboard (3) Affix sign to telephone pole and (4) Go back inside.

I write this morning with moral support from the Cap'n as he jumperoos in front of me. Yep, thanks to working in or near the roiling capital markets, your correspondent is at Home Port 2.0 today rather than the Hard Labor Camp, ready to swab, lash, belay, unfurl and trim whatever H.M. and the skipper direct. This dad stuff is hard.

Her Majesty's coughing bouts have made things interesting at night, I can tell you. I did something a few nights back that I have never before done in my entire life. I relocated sleeping locations no less than 3 times during the night. Each round of Musical Beds was a change for the worse: from a nice comfy regular bed to the old sleeper sofa to a sleeping bag on our ultra-hard office floor. Long story, but you would have probabably done the same in my circumstances.

I'm embarassed to say I had my first official near-gag reflex to a diaper. I know, I'm a lightweight, and I've seen nothing yet. And this one's borderline noncompliant with our Mission Statement, so I apologize in advance. Last night Jack had been marinating himself in a really nice vinegar and poop sauce, and I got the honors. The rancid green cloud of putrefaction that wafted through the vents in my hazmat suit just about dropped me like a stone. Melanie (we now call her The Mime or The Quiet Queen since her voice went out) had a good silent chuckle over that one. Speaking of her, she's taken up all sorts of odd behavior during this illness. She's now sleeping upright in a chair to ward off the nightly coughing fits, with pillows piled around her so that it ends up looking like a pan of monkey bread. Am I the only normal one left aboard?! Am I?! ANSWER ME!

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