Looking at the title line reminds me there's a town in Illinois called Effingham, and it's the halfway point on a drive to Athens GA; a good overnight stop. But, Effingham. Doesn't it just sounds like a place name in "Shrek" or something? That's total Mike Meyers humor right there. Effingham.
ANYway, tomorrow is the mot**rfu**ing yard sale and I have to get up at six. I have to drag a bunch of junk out onto my yard and hope I've priced it cheaply enough that it all GOES AWAY instead of going back down in my basement. It's been a crazy-busy day getting ready for this puny sale. And I've been with the boy all day too, trying not to be too overbearing even as I spin furiously trying to accomplish all my tasks. I'm low blood sugar right now too, so against my better judgement, I'm snacking. Still stuck at minus-ten pounds. Trying to maintain the 1200 calorie diet, though it's starting to affect my outlook. But I walked MILES today putting up signs and hauling my son around in his wagon, as well as running up and down the basement stairs 50 times. So I think I've burned some calories.
The crib, toddler bed and high chair are in the yard, waiting to be sold. I sent my husband down to the basement to grab the copy of "What to Expect the First Year," and he came up all morose. "So, we're not having another first year I guess." He's been watching this whole yard sale process from the back seat, not helping much and belching out advice occasionally. He'd like another child, but I'm pretty clear on whose job it would be to stay home with the infant; plus, he was a huge head case during our son's first six months, because he thinks sleep deprivation is harder on him than on any other human born. He's a great parent during daylight hours, but I've always been the one who had to get up at night. So I'm like, "whatever. It's not that I don't want another one, but we're NOT doing that again." He takes that personally.
I'm over-limit now on Barbara's All-Natural Cheese Puffs. Crap. And no new emails from my peeps. Drinking up my wine, feeling kinda oogie now, wondering where the alarm clock has disappeared to. At 8am, the vultures descend.