Weird, isn’t it, that one can pay to have her dog’s nails trimmed, but not her baby’s.

We have already clipped the tip of Owen’s finger. It spurted blood like the flesh wound knight from the Holy Grail. Since then, I’ve been extra apprehensive about nail trimmings. But the nails just keep on growing. Owen woke up with a few tiny facial scratches a few days ago and I knew I had to get back on that horse.

I’ve been trying to put together this @#$%! Exersaucer for two weeks now. It’s still in 1,675 pieces on the floor of the office. Stupid Exersaucer.

The weather looks awful. My house looks awful. The outlook for the holiday weekend? Yes, its awful. We’re going to a family friends’ house on the 4th. Other than that…nothing. It’s almost noon and I swear its black out.

Leo just sent me this link to a store that sells baby Star Wars outfits. Dork.

Owen has decided he no longer needs to sleep. Ever. I just about gave up at 11 last night. So Leo sang IRA songs to him for almost an hour. I think Owen has been thoroughly brain washed now. Too bad he’s more British than Irish.

OK, it sounds like the mother of all thunderstorms in approaching. I should go before the thunder wakes Count von Poopenstein.

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