Pink Kicks; The Neil Gaiman Thesis; Not Enough Coffee in the World…

Kids. They are the greatest: At keeping you exhausted. Trying your patience. Implying your presence is absolutely necessary or the world will end right now needed, and then not, and then wanted again, all in a five-minute span. Hugging as though the warmth is a future lifeline. Absorbing all the yeses and letting the noes slide off like unrealized temper tantrums.

This is the Great Beauty of spending time with young kids. You remember hope, relearn the confident ask, raise your expectations because no won’t kill you, and you’re confident you can win the yes. The world hasn’t broken them yet, and if you can carry that fragile memory from your nieces in New Jersey all the way home to Maine, you can cheerful your way through the months until you hug them again.

But srsly, exhaustion. I may be speaking from a delirious, alter-ego state of being. Seeeee?, I’m actually writing, not speaking. Not enough coffee, or Ritalin, in the world when I’m staying with my adorable, energetic nieces. I wouldn’t give this time up for anything.

Moving on. I ordered Vionic brand pink kicks with orthotic soles, or insoles, or something podiatrist-approved. Very comfortable and adorable (pic below). Before I came to NJ, said podiatrist injected numbing solution into both sides of each ankle to release presumed nerve impingement. Ouch. Pain has decreased from walking on hot coals and nails, to walking on dull tacks with gentle-ish vice grips. Take that, toe arthritis. And bone spurs. And plantar fasciitis.

Putting a pin in my love for Neil Gaiman’s many Great Works. Will resume another day. I mentioned the exhaustion, right?

Bright pink sneakers with orange along the bottom edge and top of cuffs.

My new, pink sneakers. I love them!

Domain, Sweet Domain

I planted my flag in the rich and fertile lands of domain ownership (rentership?) yesterday. Do I own this domain, even though I must pay a yearly fee? As a former IT person I feel like I should know the answer.

Regardless, this hectare is mine, all mine. Wipe the mud off your feet and close the door; we don’t live in a barn.

Mansplaining for bears: Less fun than manscaping. While reading a Berenstain Bears book to my niece, G, today, I was blindsided by misogyny. Mama Bear attempted to explain Thanksgiving to the cubs, but Papa Bear interrupted Mama Bear and mansplained all over her monologue. Page images below.

As a side note, I looked up the spelling of Berenstain a moment ago and was surprised the name ends with “stain.”