So I've decided it is wonderfully alright to be honest with myself. I don't like children. Well, that's not entirely true. I like some of them. The reserved practical ones who don't talk except to answer a question and sit with their ankles crossed. Also I like the tubby cute ones you can squeeze. Besides that, no.
Do not care for feeling as though it is your job to make sure it doesn't get hurt. And I'll do it for money on occasion. And it won't get hurt. But still.
There is currently a gorgeous blonde toddler with an alarmingly developed come-hither pout standing on my left beating me in the forearm with a picture book and screaming "FUCK!" repeatedly. This did manage to catch my attention so I glanced down and saw her stabbing her finger at a picture of a "duck."
Close.
It's hot today. Very. I gave a detailed explanation to this same toddler regarding the humidity and heat index in Richmond which successfully discouraged her from going out for another walk.
She then locked herself in her bedroom and began screaming "POOP!" Just great.
Got her out. Did not panic. Has the same door as my little brother had growing up which I swiftly learned could be unlocked from the outside with the nearest available shoelace. MUCH to his chagrin.
I also used to follow along behind my brother when he was learning to walk and just shove him to the floor. He, being one year old, was not too cynical yet and would never turn around to see what had happened. This was nasty of me. I did make up for it though, but martyring myself out to read him millions of picture books while he was stricken with the chicken pox. I later learned that my mother had only allowed me to do this so I would contract the disease as well. But I secretly only read to him because I enjoyed feeling like Clara Barton (my Nana had recently purchased me as series of children's historical biographies and I had taken quite a shine to Clara, Helen, and John Paul Jones).
Tonight Summer of '42 opens. This is very exciting. I saw Millie and got reminded how awesome it is to watch fun dancing and performing. The last show I did consisted mainly of doing acting. Less music. Whatever music there was was Adele, which I fancied greatly prior to the show and now would rather give a camel a tongue-bath than hear again.
This toddler is now alternating attempting to remove my bra and pinching up chub rolls from my stomach to show to me.
Now she wants me to put her in her brown long-sleeved top with gold trim. She is currently wearing a purple seersucker gown with flowers and cockroaches appliqued to the front. These items will clearly not go together. For a flash I considered telling her we'd have to change her whole outfit but then remembered about me.
She is now wearing both. Looks great.
I'm excited about Mad Men coming on. Also, So You Think You Can Dance is outstanding. Mary Page should go on there at once. I've been standing around wherever I happen to be doing standing up splits like she does in top of Act II. Can do it. But while she looks like a lithe gazelle I look like one of those Koopa toys you used to get at MacDonalds that had suction cups on their chins you could stick to their feet and make them turn a flip.
So the kitten/bat Surprise is turning white. He was coal black through and through. Then I noticed one day that he appeared to be balding behind his ears. I examined this closely and discovered that the hair behind his ears is turing snow white from the roots. Weird and fascinating. Now it is spreading around his neck. His back is gray when your stroke his fur the wrong way, and the entire underside of his tail is white like a rabbit. Sam says he is a white cat.
I say he is a mood cat.
I hear Scott Wichmann ate FISH the other day. I must say, I'm surprised he could fit that in between his commitments to being a royal pain in my......
Now the golden baby wants me to brush its' hair. Please excuse me.
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