Never has anyone been so excited to wake up feeling nauseated and run down. This morning I awoke to what seems to be a bit of morning sickness. In the first few seconds after opening my eyes, I thought "ugh...what did I drink last night? I feel funny....waaaaait....." I even woke up J to tell him with WAY too much excitement that I felt like puking. And proof positive that he's been sucked into my hysteria, he grinned and congratulated me. Please, please, please let this be a great sign. Granted, morning sickness is no guarantee of anything (I was so sick during the last pregnancy that I literally couldn't walk into a grocery store without gagging like Ralph with hairballs) but, hey, I'll take whatever signs I can get that this might be for real.
We went to Flugtag last night. (The Red Bull thing where contestants build "aircraft" and launch it off a ramp into Town Lake.) We invited J&G along, sure that an 8 and 10 year old would find this event hugely entertaining. Little did we know, 85,000 other Austinites thought this sounded entertaining. We rolled in about 90 minutes early and laid claim to a great spot down near the water, right by the ramp- perfect view, nice grassy spot to lay down our blanket, a fresh breeze- score! Not so much. By the time the event started we were in the middle of a drunken, smoky mosh pit of late arriving Flugtag enthusiasts stomping all over what used to be our blanketed territory. The boys couldn't see a thing, I was choking on the smoke (sure every breath was going straight to my uterus), and did I mention it was as hot as a big fat armpit? We took in all of one launch before we bolted. Not fun, and a total disappointment. Jacob informed us when we got home that going to school this week would definitely be more fun than Flugtag was. So at least we managed to improve his attitude about starting school. Behave, kid, or we'll take you back to Flugtag!
And you know, since it's on my mind, I just don't get smoking in public. You want to smell like a bar, ruin your complexion, yellow your teeth, and die of cancer? Cool for you, in your house, your car, whatever. But what gives you the right to share your miserable habit with me by blowing your nasty smoke breath into my air space? Or onto your KID? I actually witnessed a mom at Flugtag ash on her kid's head. She was real busy talking to what I only assume was her skeevy boyfriend on her cell, balancing herself out with a Coors Light and a lit cig in her other hand, so it totally wasn't her fault that her ashes plopped off into her toddler's greasy hair. Then she plopped down on the grass and shared with me a great view of her (sparkly Ross clearance bin) thong. Lucky kid, with a mom like that.
I think it's naptime. I'm cranky.
We went to Flugtag last night. (The Red Bull thing where contestants build "aircraft" and launch it off a ramp into Town Lake.) We invited J&G along, sure that an 8 and 10 year old would find this event hugely entertaining. Little did we know, 85,000 other Austinites thought this sounded entertaining. We rolled in about 90 minutes early and laid claim to a great spot down near the water, right by the ramp- perfect view, nice grassy spot to lay down our blanket, a fresh breeze- score! Not so much. By the time the event started we were in the middle of a drunken, smoky mosh pit of late arriving Flugtag enthusiasts stomping all over what used to be our blanketed territory. The boys couldn't see a thing, I was choking on the smoke (sure every breath was going straight to my uterus), and did I mention it was as hot as a big fat armpit? We took in all of one launch before we bolted. Not fun, and a total disappointment. Jacob informed us when we got home that going to school this week would definitely be more fun than Flugtag was. So at least we managed to improve his attitude about starting school. Behave, kid, or we'll take you back to Flugtag!
And you know, since it's on my mind, I just don't get smoking in public. You want to smell like a bar, ruin your complexion, yellow your teeth, and die of cancer? Cool for you, in your house, your car, whatever. But what gives you the right to share your miserable habit with me by blowing your nasty smoke breath into my air space? Or onto your KID? I actually witnessed a mom at Flugtag ash on her kid's head. She was real busy talking to what I only assume was her skeevy boyfriend on her cell, balancing herself out with a Coors Light and a lit cig in her other hand, so it totally wasn't her fault that her ashes plopped off into her toddler's greasy hair. Then she plopped down on the grass and shared with me a great view of her (sparkly Ross clearance bin) thong. Lucky kid, with a mom like that.
I think it's naptime. I'm cranky.
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