The past couple of nights, I have wanted nothing more than to flop down on the sofa and watch stupid TV. Being a cable-less household, we have a limited selection of channels - maybe seven? Here is how my channel-flipping went: Forensic Crime Drama Christmas movie Different Forensic Crime Drama Christmas special of sitcom Law and Order SVU Classic Christmas movie. War movie - things exploding, people screaming. Invariably, the selection oscillated between death and Christmas. Is all of cable like this? It is not a war on Christmas. It is war OR Christmas. I think Jerry Bruckheimer produced the lot.
I went to prenatal yoga again last night, where we hold a series of postures and stretches, all of which should be called the "don't fart" postures. Oh, don't look at me like that. Pregnancy wreaks havoc on your stomach, compressing it way up into your lungs. When you are not trying to get your shoes on without tipping over, you are trying not to fart.
Or not to cry. Last night the commercial for that hockey dad watching his son when his father comes up with the double-double coffee from Tim Horton's and reveals that he watched all of his son's games, unbeknownst to the son. So teary!
Then, this morning on the streetcar, a prepubescent boy with long eyelashes and a backpack was eating an ice cream cone for breakfast. A little vanilla mustache and big brown eyes. What kind of breakfast is that, you little monkey?