Boring. Don't bother.

Not gonna lie. This week, from a blog standpoint, has been the most boring since the big move. I can't even drum up enough energy to post a picture. I spend most of my time nursing a newbie and staring at walls. Sometimes I shower. Add a hearty BONJOUR! to the first illness of the season -- the Loosh is home from school with a cough, fever and suspected dual ear infections yes! -- and the potential for leaving the apartment, not to mention seeking adventure, is nil. Zip. Nada.

It's not so boring to live it. Just to read it. Honestly, the current combo of sick Loosh and fragile newborn is causing a little too much heart-pounding excitement for my taste. When Lucien coughs, I grab Camille and sprint down the hall where I feverishly nurse the hell out of her in the hopes of imparting some immunity to her tiny body. Lucien thinks this is a helluva game and runs after me, coughing and laughing as I duck and weave and holler. If anyone is looking in our windows, we must look like the strangest family ever.

Camille's first pediatrician appointment is today. I'm going to drag Lucien along and try to get a two-fer. Fingers crossed we are able to see the doctor since this is the doctor's office I can't figure out how to get into. My mother-in-law is coming so she can help catapult me through a window if necessary.

I've been watching a lot of TV lately thanks to my captive status (most of it without sound) and saw a segment on a local TV show that celebrated Frenchie sexy time. There was a sex toy convention in town and some reporters went to discover what the hottest new items of the year were. The hottest of all, for those who want to start their holiday shopping early, was a little somethin' somethin' called The Sextonik.

The Sextonik didn't look too special to me -- seemed to be your everyday bright purple fake vibrating phallus -- but for some reason it's special and Frenchies were rushing about with sextonik focus and determination. It reminded me of the Cabbage Patch Kid craze of my childhood only way dirtier. (There's probably not an adoption process involved but you could probably name it if you wanted to.)

The camera crew stopped people as they left the convention and asked them, "What did you buy?" The casual manner in which people opened their bags to show off their adult purchases was delightful to see. There was not a hint of self-consciousness or embarrassment as they pulled out "special" beads, blow-up dolls, and, of course, the Sextonik.

One man, when asked if he had purchased the ole ST as a gift for someone, replied, "Oh no. It's for me!" with a happy smile. I had to turn the channel then because as much as I am entertained by the openness of the Frenchies, I didn't want to picture that specific man with that specific toy. He looked like a yeti. And I've always said there's nothin' sexy about a yeti.

So hey, this post wasn't as boring as I thought it would be! Way to rally 'em, Sextonik.

Wait for me, Paris and blog friends. I promise I'll come back to you.

I'd name mine Mr. Pickles,
MJ