Innocent-sounding terminology makes me giggle.

I was over at Mommy Brained earlier, and discovered that a certain set of gay men call themselves "bears" and other associated things. In and of itself, kind of amusing, but not bust-a-gut funny. But oh, gentle readers, the Wikipedia article she links to makes me giggle with glee.

You see, under "terminology," there's an entry called Goldilocks. Anyone over the age of 8 understands the relation to bears, of course. And the description even makes sense: a female, often heterosexual, who is often in the company of bears. Bears being the big, burly gay men often riddled with body and/or facial hair. Okay. But in parenthesis, because someone who writes these things has a sense of humor as perverse as my own, it says, "(a bear's fag hag)."

Because my mind is warped and twisted and wrong, it immediately conjured up for my mental viewing pleasure a picture of a woman, the fabled fag hag, dressed to the nines in a Goldilocks costume, standing next to a bewildered-looking grizzly. I found this funny enough to warrant my man looking at me like I'd finally lost my ever-loving mind. I probably have.

But this made me want to look for other "innocent" terminology in various subcultures, because obviously these people have awesome senses of humor. What I found instead was the disturbingly specific Hanky Code. Remind me never to leave the house with ANY bandanna in my pocket, because god knows I'll unwittingly be inviting someone to do horrible, unspeakable things to my body. My inner snark is currently whispering, "But it could be fun!" in my head. I told you my mind was warped.

Unloved in the blogosphere...

I am not loved! I swear, with all the 0 comments, a girl feels so alone!

But seriously. I've been fighting tooth and nail with myself to get back into the kitchen to make some bread, some muffins, some freakin' biscuits in a can for heaven's sake, but I just can't muster up the energy to do more than the requisite meals. In my house, this means a protein and a starch. Possibly a veggie or a fruit if it can be sliced and served. If it can be microwaved, it is Beloved. The idea of committing to a yeasted anything makes my back groan and my brain shut down with a firm, "Hell. No." Even quick breads and muffins give me pause because they must be baked immediately, and if the measuring and mixing tires me out, I don't have much choice but to put it in the oven. Which doesn't seem like much work, but when the hour for that bread to cook means I have to keep my eyeballs open and my ears tuned for the timer, all I suddenly want to do is sleep.

I am seriously considering cookies. My pregnant and weight losing self can afford the calories, and even I can manage to finish measuring and mixing before I get tired. I think... Shut up! Pregnancy and I don't mix. It kicks my lily white ass to the curb and laughs while it does so. The worst that happens is I freeze the crap to bake another day. But if I'm honest with myself, I don't want cookies. I know! Pregnant lady not wanting cookies. Crazy. I want some fucking cheesecake and I will happily kill someone to get it. I just don't have the energy or the patience, let's be honest to make one. And do you know how much that shit costs? Walmart -- WALMART, PEOPLE! -- sells a 9-inch cheesecake for $11. I can make a 9-inch cheesecake for $5, maybe $7 if I don't get my cream cheese on sale.

Split the difference and you've got a nearly 50% markup. That's highway goddamn robbery, people. It's wrong, and something must be done. Like maybe, one of my Good Internet Buddies volunteering to come over and make me some? Please? I will beg for cheesecake. Shamelessly, people. Take advantage of this weakness, just for god's sake GET THE PREGNANT WOMAN SOME CHEESECAKE!

Here, kitty kitty...

My family must truly be insane, because not only are we adding another human crumb cruncher to our household, we're also considering adding a feline one. We can't have a dog where we currently live and honestly, a dog is too much work for me right now... cats are at least 90% self-sufficient and we both want our girls to grow up with animals. I don't know if there's scientific research into it or anything, but I'm pretty sure loving and taking care of a furball prepares them for... something or another. Theoretically.

Or maybe I just miss my cats.

And with all the mass foreclosures in our area, we're also considering buying! a! house! Holy god, I'm becoming an adult. It's freakin' scary, I tell you. Next thing you know we'll be buying a minivan and... oh, wait. We are buying a minivan. Or something like it. Ah, crap, I went and grew up. Does this mean I have to throw away my cartoon collection?

Adventures In Mommyhood

It's like the movie, "Adventures in Babysitting" where everything that could go wrong, did. At the worst possible moment. It's Murphy's Law, personified. Where to begin?

Oh, I know: I feel like crap. I felt like crap last night, too, when my youngest decided that screaming at the top of her lungs for hours on end just wasn't enough to brighten my day with. Okay, technically it was night, because my children have decided they must be on an overnight schedule. Just like Daddy! Yay! *groan* We had to add injury to the mix.

I am not generally one to panic. Prone to dramatics, perhaps, but honest to god panic? Nah. The one and only time I truly panicked about one of my children was with the first one, the very first time she bled. To my credit, it was quite a bit of blood, and I didn't freak out until I couldn't stop the gushing. What happened, you ask? The day she started scooting, I had her on the bed with me because I had The Morning Sickness of Doom, and before I could catch her, she decided to take a header off the edge to get to her stuffed animal on the floor. Yeah. Face freaking first. Nosebleed of the year!

So when my youngest crashed off the rocking chair and started crying, I sighed, and heaved my heavily pregnant and yet only 4 months along, *sigh* ass off the couch to tend to her. They climb, they jump, they run, they scream, and generally speaking, this is when I know they're both okay. When it gets quiet or someone does the "I'm actually in pain!" cry, I know something's wrong. Until then, it's just rambunctious toddler fun. Now, my kids often cry for thirty seconds and then run off to rejoin the fun, and I expected this tumble to be like most others. I realized I was wrong when I saw blood.

Aw, shit. This was my first thought as I hunted down the source of the blood. It was her head, of course, because that's just my luck. I checked her pupils, asked her to stand up, but honestly, other than the "damn that hurt!" crying, she was just fine. I wasn't worried. I took her to the bathroom, stopped the bleeding she has AWESOME clotting, incidentally and washed down her head so I could see it. It was a tiny cut, really. But because Murphy hates me, it was deep. Damn deep. I realized my poor little two and a half year old needed stitches.

I had to call her daddy home from work, bundle up my kids, haul my huge self around for 4 hours of car rides, ER visit, a stop at Walmart for peroxide, and finally making food for us all because now we were all starving. Why couldn't this crap happen on one of the days or nights that I feel halfway decent? Because say it with me, kids Murphy. Hates. Me. Now my child has three staples in her head that she didn't even cry over, go Raven! and I get to add a wound-cleaning regimen to my day. Taking care of two kids and a full-time-working significant other while being pregnant isn't enough, Universe. Please, add some more on.

Someone shoot me.