And to yesterday's list, I'd like to add a new item: flushing the toilet. That boy knows how to have fun in the bathroom. It's unreal.

While I'm thinking of odd & somewhat random items, maybe now is the time to thank Anna for nominating me for the Best of Blog Awards in the Mommy category. (No link necessary, as I didn't make it past the first cut.) I found out about this a few days ago when I was trying to nominate the women I love to read, alerted by a faithful reader because I never pay attention to these things, reading my many comments, ego-googling. I could tell you that it was an honour to be nominated, and it was. I'm tickled that Anna seems to have forgiven me for not winging a Woody Guthrie CD her way in the last 4 months, and more so that she's a bit upset that I didn't get past the open nominations. It's nice to be loved.

But here's the thing: I don't win awards. I don't usually get nominated for awards, and if I do, then I don't get past the winnowing stage. I've kept this diary since June 14, 1997 - seven years and seven months this coming week. I've teamed up with better, more successful writers and elicited no notice. I've attracted the loyalty of people like Anna & Amy, who fought the good fight for me with the Diarist Awards. I. Never. Win.

Somedays I feel like a cockroach - I was here before most bloggers got on the scene and now my only hope is to stay alive until the fad passes. Now isn't that a cheerful thought.

Still, I'm glad that Anna nominated me. And you could do worse than to leave me a comment or two, people. Unlike Dooce, you'll never have to compete for the privilege of leaving the first one of the day.

This week the Boy & I watched two movies: Shaun of the Dead and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Of these two, I have to say that I enjoyed SotD more. It's hard to make a feel-good zombie pic, but they really delivered. ESotSM was just aching, and the childhood memory scenes made me want to rush into the bedroom and clutch my sleeping Blake. It is the business of some films to illuminate the inescapable sorrow of the human condition - but for a weeknight, I prefer watching three Brits hit a zombie with pool cues to a rockin' Queen tune.

(My brother is obsessed with the Queen song "Bicycle" and I can't help but think of him every time I hear a Queen song. I suppose that if I knew any other Queen fans, I might be able to expand my associations, but I work with what I'm given.)

The Story of Burt

When Blake was just the Sprout, the Boy & I used to joke that our genetic heritage was bound to produce a SuperNerd. We used to make up conversations between ourselves and our comically nerdish son: conversations that would always hinge on his strangeness. But when Blake was born, our misty ideas of the Sprout evaporated in the sun of our child's reality. Somehow this infant didn't appear to be a bumbling ridiculous shmoe - if he wasn't a superman, a god among babies then he was surely at least average in height and strength and grace and charm. Now, I'm not laying money on the final twist of destiny - the geek is strong in this one, you understand - but we suddenly realized that Blake didn't have to be a dork. He probably will be, eventually, but he won't be this übernerd we dreamed up when my belly was big. So we stopped discussing it.

Sometime in the past month, we've begun speaking with utmost hesitation about a second child. Not because one is on the way, but because we hope a second one is in the cards about three years down the line. This baby may be years in a future undreamt by all but us, yet (s)he's started to look pretty familiar. Except this time, the übernerd's name is Burt. And I love him/her, even though Blake's always embarrassed when his little sibling tags along.

Heh. Burt.

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- Rocketbride's adventure of 1/06/2005 11:11:00 p.m.