Hi it's c jane.
You know me.
I've been a lazy little blogger lately. My head hasn't hatched an original thought all week and let's be honest, I haven't really left my house either. It's too hot. And I've yet to feel completely comfortable nursing my hatchling in public (I mean, I feel fine about it . . . but do you?) So we take it outside some days, stretch in the shade and look at the clouds. Plus, I don't have to dress chez moi. I swear, wouldn't life be so much easier if togas were more accepted socially? Or better yet, nudity?
But also, I need to admit that I am courageously battling some addictions that have kept me from heart-felt story telling. One obsession deals with dark chocolate peanut m&ms. It is so hard to find a another dark chocolate fellow in my inner-circle that most of the time I buy a bag only to eat by handfuls, alone, in the dark. Did you get a mental picture?
Don't forget my fixation with Micheal Phelps and his mother. His breaststroke makes for hyperesthetic strokes in my breast. Does that sound right? Don't twist that the wrong way . . . please . . . I am a self-actualizing addict of various and sundry . . . now is not the time.
Don't you think it should be various and Sunday?
Because what is sundry? No one knows, but Sunday is the day to keep holy. And eat waffles at night.
Speaking of drama queens, did you watch Alicia Sacramone get all gymnastically angry at the team finals and was it just the little piece of Olympic tragedy you were looking for? And speaking of chests, is she the only gymnast to ever have one? And shouldn't that be a medal right there?
Alright, you figured me out. My last addiction is looking for chests on female Olympic athletes. As I usually do this while nursing, it seems appropriate.
Appropriate, my middle name.