Idle Chatter

I have exactly 15 eatable cookies out of the batch I made this morning.
What with the first batch being undercooked (there is a difference between "chewy" and "intestinally inadvisable") the third batch having the oven turned off accidentally (wtf?) and then the makeup baking having been forgotten completely until they were brown as the bottom of my shoes, we didn't come out with many. Which is okay, because I ate the weight of my left boob in batter as I was making them. Why is it that baking cookies sounds like so much fun when you first think about it, and then by the third batch you can't imagine what sounded fun about this, and how big do I have to make them until this $@%$%#! dough runs out, and then, NO I'm not going to scrape the bowl, fuck it, I've been standing here for hours and I just remembered I don't actually LIKE cookies.

What a difference a neighborhood makes! We have a new visitor to the house, a young girl kitten named Thunder, who is enamored with the admittedly handsome Leo and who comes by to hang out, sleep on the patio and make moon faces at him. Leo is alternately irritated, scared or preening. Lucy hated her on sight and spends her time crouched in the house, ready to bitch out should the occasion warrant itself. In our old house we had nothing but butchy feral strays who came by to terrorize, intimidate and pee over everything.

I am currently enthralled (and occasionally, rarely, every once in a while disgusted) with my pregnant body.

Discovering new symptoms and then Googling them is very entertaining and is keeping my mind away from the apocalyptic future that awaits us because we haven't sold the house and tallying up what we've lost makes my heart rip itself to shreds and pound on my ribcage in terror.