Anne Nahm

*This website is awesome and a half. You type the name of an artist you like? And they play a mix for you of all kinds of similar music. For free, baby.

So right now? I typed in “Indigo Girls” because the little box would not accept, “I’m feeling all mixed up and four different shades of moody, and I want some women to sing to me about the phases of the moon, and the deep heart and burden of womanhood, blah blah blah. But also? I’m the kind of moody that even though I hunger for Indigo Girls? Do not play me Indigo Girls! But something Indigoish please. Right now. And bring me some chocolate. And make it in ice cream form. And step back. Don’t touch me. Hold me. Where the eff is my music?”

* Am getting back into running. Let me tell you how depressing that is: After more than a month out of shape? Cannot run for twenty minutes. Even though I was running so slowly that when I finally gave up and padded to a walk? The treadmill was already going so slow that I could keep walking without reducing my speed.

* I got denied membership to an LJ club because I won’t put my birthday on my profile page. I shot off a little email with my birthdate information enclosed and a goofy message inside.

And got back a rather short, “put up your damn birthday just like everyone else. Who do you think you are, anyway? Don’t you understand the concept of a rule?”

And today is the kind of day where I’m all pissy about that. Fine! I’ll burn in hell before I put my birthdate up! You are not the boss of me! I don’t even want to join your stupid club anyway!

And holy cow, why do I feel the need to spend so much emotional energy on complete stupidity today? It’s like I’m in some drama vacuum. No drama in my real life? Must manufacture something to get dramatic about. And damnit, my drama must be fueled by some Indigo Girls.

*Am compiling all of your suggestions for the great Sexification Experimentation in my spare time. I have decided that this will involve lots of shopping for me. And lots of clothes and such. This is rather convenient since the baby has pretty much given up nursing*** and I need to get some bras that don’t unlatch over the nipples. Because as sexy as that look is? I’ve been sporting it for a year. However, between pregnancy and nursing, there have been about three months in the last 5 years that I was just a ‘normal’ cup size.

And funny thing about those five years and the trials and tribulations my tits have endured in that short space of time?Well, I’m kind of doubting that my old Victoria Secret’s 32 Ds are going to fit my battle-weary boobs.

In fact? I look at the tiny coathanger wire and demi cup and I can’t decide if I need to laugh, throw up, or just cry. Why didn’t I take more pictures of myself naked? I mean, naked without a smurf popping out of my who-ha and me making that face like a man trying to lift a mac truck by its fender?

***I think each boob might contain a tablespoon of milk at any given time. Mostly, the baby is completely disinterested in nursing. Sometimes I can slip her morning boob after her bottle when she is still not quite awake. When this happens, she starts feeling me up with all this curiosity, as if to say, “What up with this meat sock you’re giving me? Where did it come from?”