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This afternoon I was standing in the kitchen, Bug strapped to my person, boob out, lactating (yeah, she’s a talented bugger now and can milk it vertical thus allowing for maximum multitasking), t-shirt hiked high exposing my poodgy, postpartum belly, hair in a “messy bun” (a fav hairstyle circa 7th grade) unwashed for 3, okay 5, days, ripped jeans, stained men’s white t-shirt, fuzzy slippers, peeling the tails off of shrimp, thus surrounded by the aroma of fish, as I prepared another meal en bulk (because that’s the only way to ensure that James and I eat a balanced dinner anymore) and Ursa was seated at my feet, waiting patiently for a morsel to fall within her reach. Suddenly, I heard a fierce, audible ass explosion coming from down below. Shocked (although I shouldn’t have been) I gazed down at the dog, who looked up at me, completely unfazed, as if to say, “What? Like you’re so refined?”

And you know what, the dog was right.

Spell it out, Fergie Ferg.

Oh, and while I wrote this post, I completely forgot about the baby food I had steaming on the stove, thus destroying the pot and charring the food.

URSA! You want some food?! Come’on and getit!