Baby Crumpet is, in fact, my favorite baby in the world, and Big A is lucky I didn’t abscond with her.
Am in Seattle, ensconced in Coffee of Doom while Chip, a dear friend from high school, is off doing important law-related things (i.e. work). Due to an extraordinary burst of exhaustion-fueled productivity, I am actually DONE with all the work I brought with me, leaving me a blissful day alone to mill around looking important and/or winsome, drink massive amounts of coffee, and inundate my poor benighted friends with e-mails. (Laptop! WI-FI! Life is so so good.)
Spent two lovely days being ferried about by Big A and Da Mao, bless their generous hearts, and seeing the sights; of course, these being reasonable folks, the sights consisted mainly of places where we could stuff ourselves silly with food. Thus far maple doughnuts, wasabi tuna, salmon in abundance, and a delightful delicacy known as “shaven noodles” have all been sucked into the legendary gullet of Book Stud; I can’t button my jeans without jumping up and down, but I’m HAPPY.
Baby Crumpet immediately proceeded to destroy every preconceived notion I have about babies, particularly for those values of “things I don’t like about”; she was quiet, adorable, and beamed away like someone was paying her to do it. She doesn’t seem to have quite grasped the difference between fingers and Slim Jims, as she spent a good chunk of time trying to gnaw my fingers off my hand – babies, dear readers, have KILLER jaws – but she did it in a sort of endearing, affectionate way, so I could hardly fault her.
Tuesday night found us invited to dinner at the house of two authors I adore ludicrously; I somehow managed not to go embarrassingly fangirl on them [note: this is a lamentable falsehood]; the better part of a bottle of wine did not help. Pray that I escaped with the feeble detritus of my dignity.
And yesterday – PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN PART TWO!!! Brilliant. Brilliant! Far too much excitement about CGI – how many shots of Big Tentacley Thing did we really need? – but anytime the camera’s on Johnny Depp, you could just about die laughing – he’s raised foppish slapstickery to an art form.
Aaaar, Johnny. Yer my boy.
