Holy. Effing. Awesome.

Seriously. Katy just sent me this BACON FLOW CHART. Click on it to check out the hilarity.

It's amazing what you can get with a baby strapped to your chest.

Today as I took Baby 3 for his walk (an outing we make at least twice a day given that the baby bjorn is like crack for him and the only thing that will soothe him when he's grizzly), we happened past a local library. On a whim, I stopped in. I knew that I couldn't get a card due to the fact that I don't have proof of address (in the form of a utility bill or rent check, for example), but it was worth going to check it out and get in out of the cold.

Within minutes, the librarian was cooing over 'my child.' I felt no need to correct the impression as I subtly inquired, 'How do I go about getting a library card?' 'Oh, just fill this out! And would you like a card for your child, as well? And take this flyer about our children's programmes!' Five minutes later, I walked out with a shiny card in my pocket, a baby coo'ing on my chest, and a book tucked under my arm. From now on any time I need a door greased, I'm takin' this little guy with me. We are unSTOPPABLE.

Now to the liquor store...

Just when you think the world has gone dark...

It gets dark here early. Like 3:30 in the afternoon early. This has succeeded in making me more of a homebody than usual; the sort of person who races home in the cold to fuzzy slippers and fleece blankets and a mug of tea and declines to go out, even when going out means making new friends and trying new places. I keep telling myself that when spring comes I'll start making an effort, but really when given the opportunity, I can completely sequester myself for months and have very little human contact with very little regret.

I did that my last semester in college when I had my own studio apartment above the garage of the chair of the university english department, a nutty old man who only charged 250/month and let me paint the walls yellow, brick red, and avocado green, a la Amelie, my obsession of the minute. It was my first time living alone and I loved it. I listened to Philip Glass, took bubble baths, tasted wine for the first time, and taught myself chess theory. I learned that I was happy eating the same thing for dinner every night (quesadillas) and increasingly found myself declining invitations to meet up with friends. However, the more I withdrew, the more antisocial I became. I lost the ability to converse easily and I lost the patience for small talk. Large groups began to irritate me, and small groups I couldn't lose myself in, so I avoided them all.

Here the weather is doing the same thing to me that living alone did back then. It makes me think, 'Why bother?'

And then a package full of sunshine arrived last Thursday. Katy, wonderful, future-wife Katy sent me so much goodness that I can't even handle it. It was a package to bring a girl to tears. And if I were back home, living in a bubble, I would've popped that bad boy just to hump her with gratitude. I really can't thank her enough for this.

Here are just a few of the goodies that have renewed my sense of life and purpose and woke me from my winter-induced apathy, goodies that brighten my perspective every time I open the cupboard door...and yes, biscuits have the power to brighten my day.

Napkins of infinite wisdom:

'Porn for Women', courtesy of Chronicle Books: each page features a male model doing some sort of domestic chore with vigor and enthusiasm, like knitting booties with a caption reading 'I'm so excited for your sister to have her baby!'

And last but not least...BLUE BOTTLE COFFEE, from Deee's and my favorite kiosk at the Ferry Building Farmer's Market and also where Katy and I would take turns doing runs before church on Sundays. Katy aptly picked the flavor 'Giant Steps,' (I don't know WHAT she's trying to say there), and it's so good I'm tempted to drop some grounds in the tub with me and bathe in it.

Now off I go to my childminding job, with a spring in my step, coffee on my breath, and porn in my pocket. Life is good.

Overheard

Drunk old man: Ah, God bless me, I'm lovely!

The Death Cold

For over a week now I've been struggling with a little thing I have come to term The Death Cold. There seems to be no cure, no amount of sleep, no thousands of mgs of Vitamin C that can nuke this bad boy. At last I broke down and went to Boots to buy cold and flu medicine, only to find that my old beloved friend Nyquil (and sure, Dayquil, join in the party, though really, let's be honest, your nightlife brother steals your thunder) is not sold here...What would I drink (I mean, sip, in the quantity of 2 tablespoons) at night when I couldn't sleep? What would wipe out all of my ills? And so I resorted to the label-reading of all the new-to-me products on the shelf. Eventually I came to the conclusion that either the English are healthier, and that is why they seem to only have one cold and flu medicine, just under different labels, or two, the world has conspired against me and is delightfully planning my demise, hands rubbing together in scheming glee. Deciding at the end of a fruitless twenty minutes just to try all the medicinal options before me, I struggled to the register with caplets, tablets, syrups, teas, and lozenges overflowing in my arms. I spontaneously tossed some antibacterial handwipes and two Miffy kleenex boxes onto the precariously balanced pile before dumping it all unceremoniously onto the till counter.

And so the attack began: two caplets in, one fizzy vitamin c drink. One vapour-action dissolving lozenge, one mug of sickly sweet and tangy lemon and honey flu tea, two more caplets, one more fizzy vitamin c drink. A tablespoon of the cough syrup down, causing a violent gag reflex due to a flavour that can best be described as 'bile-forward with a vomit-like finish,' causing the entire bottle to be promptly binned with a swear word and a silent prayer to the absent Nyquil gods. And so goes the diet, for five straight days.

Is progress being made? I don't know. I definitely feel like my body's not my own, which can probably only be an improvement given how I treat it when it IS my own. Other than that, a sort of homeostasis seems be in place, the two warring halves of sick v. well each making headway at various times of the day, only to eventually call it a draw, as though they're staring each other down across a battlefield, daring one another to try and pull something funny. 'Okay, you can make the nose run, but I draw the line at adding a cough. You at least want a tickly throat? Okay, then relinquish some fatigue. Hey! Don't you DARE draw that mucus gun unless you're prepared to give up a headache. Okay, agreed.' And so the camps skirmish and symptoms attack and then retreat, taking turns, and no side seems to be winning the war...I fully anticipate my body remaining encamped here indefinitely, eventually pulling out playing cards and trading cigarettes.

In the meantime, if I seem a bit dull lately--and I mean dull here in the lack-luster, not-as-brightly-shining sense of the word, not the ennui-inducing sense of the word, although many apologies if the latter is the one that is more descriptive--then I promise you it is only a spell and it will ideally be over soon. After all, I've got a vitamin cannon up my sleeve.

Laundry in London

I'm trying to do laundry right now, but the washing machines here...well, make it a bit difficult. They are apparently designed with midgets in mind. With a loading capacity of approximately three shirts, four socks, and a pair of underwear, you must run approximately fifteen loads for a day's worth of clothing. Washing your bedding? One sheet per load, please. Throw in a pillowcase if you dare. The wash cycle takes about 45 minutes (unlike the fifteen minute cycles in the Land of the Giants), while the dryer cycle takes...oh, wait, no dryers here. Unless you make a decent income and therefore expect a certain quality of life, or have a baby and forced your spouse to get you one, as the prospect of hanging four billion teeny tiny onesies over drying racks would no doubt push you over the brink of madness. But any home outfitted by the lower or middle class since, say, 2007, is most likely dryer-less. I don't mind it so much given that I hung-dry most of my clothing in San Francisco, but there I had the luxury of a sunny bay window and a pleasant ocean breeze to do the trick. Here you would only open your window if you had a death wish and thought biting gales of frigid rain were a pleasure. And so you rely on the radiator: those ancient sources of heat lining the walls of each room, often broken, and with a surface area rivalling that of a tea saucer. Luckily, given that one can only wash a hanky at a time, this seems to work out.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go put in a pair of socks.

the lakes

I've got half an hour til Baby 3 wakes, so I'm feeling totally high on life and ready to post some photos from the Lake District...And before you start expecting mountain vistas and reflective bodies of water, let me clarify: when on the road, you can really only see...trees. Lots and lots of trees. I'm sure on the other side of said trees were panoramas to make the heart flutter, but--like oh so many trips to Yosemite when your glimpses of the majesty are sentenced to the gap in forest where they create turnouts for your car and wooden signs announcing your location, where tourists congregate en masse with cameras, guaranteeing that every photo from Yosemite is of the same mountain range/glacier/meadow-and-lake--well...it was like that. Beautiful, stately, pristine, and mostly out of sight.

And so the photos below are of the tiny views, the everyday sights. The Family McQuade had allotted a handful of cabins in a park that was designed around Activities for the Whole Family, and the entertainment (from pottery painting to rock climbing to bowling) never ceased...it was nature the way it was meant to be done.

Apparently you can paddle boat around the lake...however, given that I couldn't feel my nose, hands, or feet, I was not about to pedal around in a wet, plastic seat to see if I could find more trees to look at.

The handsomest devil around: Patriarch McQuade, and the man whose 80th birthday was the cause of the weekend festivities.

You might think, 'Wouldn't this be a nice path to bicycle down?' But you'd be wrong. And that's all I'm going to say on the subject.

Nature at its finest...this glowing beacon of the night contained a heated indoor water park (imagine huge slides and fake palm trees), a bowling alley, a half dozen restaurants, and shops shops shops. Why hike outdoors when you've got miles to see in here?

You will be happy to note that bowling is consistent no matter what country you are in...you will still get stylish shoes to sport over psychedelic carpet and balls that glow in the dark. So if you're ever abroad and feeling homesick, just head for the nearest bowling alley...you won't even know you've left Kentucky.

Even the waterfalls were multi-hued...this, THIS is the land of the free and home of the brave.

And a photo of the renowned trees.