Further Proof That I Don't Know ANYTHING

What the hell is this weather doing? Chilly again and overcast but supposedly no chance of rain. I suppose I should get my ass out and water the garden.
I don't know.
One of those mornings where I know nothing and it is made blatantly obvious to me over, and over, and over again and on my deathbed I'll say, "I know nothing and I never fucking did," and then I'll die. Done. And everyone will say, "Jeez. What a waste! All those years and she knew nothing."

I do know this- I'd rather not have a deathbed. I'd rather keel over in the cookie aisle at Publix, perhaps overly excited at the large selection and then just DIE so hard and so fast that no one has time to even break my fall, thus ensuring that I die twice- once from a massive something-something and then again from the ensuing head injury.

Okay. That might scare a child.

Whatever. We are all subject to traumatizing events in our childhoods. You can count on that.

Last night I made egg salad sandwiches with tomatoes on them for my husband to take fishing this morning. He got up at some very ungodly hour to go fishing out on the ocean and I had those beautiful hardboiled eggs and so I smashed them up and mixed some Miracle Whip and yellow mustard and sweet pickle relish and salt and pepper in with them and spread all of that on lovely whole grain bread and sliced up those tomatoes and put the sandwiches together and wrapped them all up with plastic wrap for him to take.
I also saved back a small piece of the carrot cake we brought home from Lily's for him to take as well. This reminded me of the day I had Jessie Moon, my youngest daughter. All day long I was in labor and I was walking around with my contractions, trying to be OPEN and allow myself to accept the strength of the contractions with OPENNESS AND GRATEFULNESS, etc., but mostly cursing under my breath and everyone in the world was there that day, all cheerful and happy because I WAS IN LABOR AND THEY WERE NOT and they cooked food and decorated as if for a party and my friend Lynn made egg salad, which I have never really liked in my life and someone brought a carrot cake, too.

So the point of this story is, is that by the time Jessie Moon was born and I was able to eat again after being in labor for a night and a day and puking most of that time, it was late at night and so I got up from my bed with my tiny baby and went into the kitchen because I was STARVING and I wanted some carrot cake so bad but there was not one crumb of carrot cake left. Not one. But there was egg salad.
I'll never get over that.

You've perhaps heard that story before. Whatever. Perhaps it shall become my traditional Easter Story although Jessie wasn't born on Easter but a few weeks later.

So I thought about that story last night and as always, when I think about egg salad, I wonder why I don't really like it because it is basically the same exact thing as deviled eggs but just with the whites all mushed up with the yolks. I'm a deviled egg purist. I don't hold with putting gourmet items in deviled eggs. The most gourmet item you will find in my deviled eggs is a little bit of mayonnaise along with the Miracle Whip. This is where I prove my Southerness.
Yesterday at Lily's after Owen hunted his Easter Eggs

everyone wanted deviled eggs and so Mark and I peeled eleven eggs (Owen wanted to keep one to play with) and then I deviled those eggs so fast you'd have thought that someone was holding a stop watch and they were not pretty. Oh hell no.
But they were damn good and we ate them as fast as I'd made them.

I thought about my Lis who PIPES her yolk-mixture back into the whites and how she would have had the vapors if she'd seen me scooping that stuff into the whites with a FORK and there wasn't even a sliced olive to go on top. Sure enough, when I talked to her later, she told me she'd not only piped the yolk mixture but had dyed her whites with beet juice and I bet they were the prettiest eggs in the world. She put a tiny bit of chopped dill on top.

Well, that's the difference between me and Lis. She is strong on presentation, I am strong on...uh...NOT presentation.

I still don't know why I love deviled eggs but do not care for egg salad.

So Mr. Moon is out on the ocean fishing and I don't know why but he does and that's all that matters. He left me a note that said, "I love you," with a heart on it. I also don't really know why he loves me but I sure am glad he does.

Someone I know posted a thing on Facebook the other day about how to be truly happy in a relationship you should be so happy with yourself that you would be okay without that other person and I wanted to smack someone. Specifically, the person who posted that shit.
Does that make any sense to you? I mean, if you're seventeen, maybe.
If you're fifty-seven and you've been with someone you love for twenty-eight years how can you even begin to imagine being happy without them? I don't care how much you love yourself. And who really loves themselves, anyway? I once knew a woman who was totally in love with herself to the point where it was bizarre and crazy but she was happy.
Her husband left her.
I imagine she was still happy but I am not sure.

Well, I could go on like this all day but I probably better not.
I'm going to go into town to go to the breastfeeding support group (aka Boob Group) with Lily and Gibson and then we're going to Babys (backwards) R us and maybe even get some lunch. Owen is staying home with his Uncle Chris. I thought I was going to babysit him and I was hoping we could watch some great kid movie together but I guess that's not to be. Oh well. I like to be surrounded by breastfeeding women and babies. I could take pictures and post them here. That would make as much sense as anything but I won't. That would be an invasion of privacy and if I do know one thing, privacy should NOT be invaded, especially when it comes to breastfeeding which reminds me of the guy I knew who claimed that his wife practiced the Las Vegas Showgirl Style Of Breastfeeding, meaning she didn't care who saw her breasts.
That still cracks me up.

I am enjoying getting to know Gibson with all of my heart. He is a fine baby and a relaxed one. He likes to be propped up into a sitting position and he holds that little head up and looks all around and if he gets fussy, he doesn't do it in an annoying way. He does it in a polite way and then if he gets some milk, he quits being fussy. He's a little like Yoda if Yoda breastfed.

All right, all right! I'll stop now! I think I am a bit worried about Mr. Moon being out on the ocean because honestly, well, they go out there really far and if anything happened out that far, it would be scary and no, I do not love myself enough to be happy without him.

That's all.
I mean it.

Yours Truly...Ms. Clueless