Let us sing the praises of Jim Howe, the pharmacist who, in 1928, in his basement laboratory, invented the concoction known today at Tums. On Monday, I received the all-clear to start eating Tums like popcorn, and man, between that and my dabbling in quackery chiropractics, I haven't felt so well in months. Why, if it weren't for the unusually bloated stomach and the mysteriously poor typing, one might not know I was even pregnant at all!
Now if I could only figure out how to remember to drink a thousand ounces of water a day...
Or, why having kids is all worth it:
"Sweetie, could you please go get me a soda out of the fridge? Thank you."
Some of you may remember the horrible saga of the house behind mine and its ongoing contruction work. Or, more to the point, the horrifying and total lack thereof.
Imagine our astonishment when we woke up this morning and peered out the bathroom window, all clustered together as a family, drawn there by the unmistakable sound of hammering. We were flabbergasted to see a man working there busily replacing the tattered remnants of plywood that overwintered naked and unsheltered from the elements. This man, he was hammering with determination, and with scaffolding, and at the early hour of 8 in the morning, all of which added up to one mouth-watering conclusion: he was getting paid for this!
Indeed, as the day has progressed, not only has the rear of that house been plastered with judicious amounts of fresh, unweathered plywood, but it has also been bandaged over with a fluffy white layer of insulation.
There is still no siding in evidence, nor shingles, but an invigorated -- dare I say rejuvenated -- sense of hope is swelling in my breast. Perhaps the eyesore, having long since crusted over, will finally heal.
My kitchen is: Passable, I suppose. Not like I've been, you know, cooking or anything.