Story about baby not contained within

This post really has nothing to do with baby Jack, but sometimes a girl's got to let off a bit of steam.

Greg and I just can't seem to go on a date. Jack is six months old, and, well, I can't remember the last time we went on a date. I think it was before I went back to work. We've only been out, sans baby, two or three times since Jack was born.

Greg's band is playing at a local bar tonight, and he and I were planning to spend some time before the show, hanging out, like adults, at a bar, discussing something other than the contents of Jack's diaper. We had plans, friends to join us, a sitter, everything!

Fab.

And then Jack got sick and I got sick and this the eighth time in three months, but who's counting, oh-wait-that's-right-I-am.

Eight times. In three months. And it's been a month since the last time, so if you want to be accurate, really that's seven times in two months and one time in one month. Seriously, how is that possible?

I'm stuffy and sneezy and coughing and I'm walking around with a kleenex permanently attached to my nose. About one out of every four times that I blow my nose, Jack wakes up. And if there's anything worse than having a stuffy nose, it's not clearing your stuffy nose because you might wake the baby.

Really, is this my life?

So I ate a bowl of pasta, a half cup of ice cream, and for some weird reason, decided to test my blood sugar for the first time in two months or so. I saw it hit 260 after one hour.

Shit that's bad. For those who don't know, 260 is not a good number.

Then I proceeded to freak out and email my doctor before realizing that DUH I'd had a decongestant earlier in the day, and decongestants raise blood sugar.

Then the decongestant wore off and I got even stuffier but I can't bring myself to take another decongestant because now I know what it does to my blood sugar. (Which explains years of my refusal to use benadryl -- I knew it made me feel awful, I just didn't know why until now).

Our sitter is a next door neighbor, Pat, a lovely woman who has kindly offered to watch Jack anytime. So nice of her. And although date night was officially out, I had another dilemma at hand: friends, tomorrow, 11am, brunch. With Greg at the bar, how would I make something for us to eat? Because this is how cooking generally goes in these days: I put Jack down to sleep, I start a recipe, Jack wakes up, I put the gate up to keep the dogs out of the kitchen, I try to nurse Jack back to sleep, Tori starts barking because she wants cheese, and then Jack starts crying because Tori is barking.

I've learned not to cook at night unless my spouse is available.

Solution: aforementioned friendly neighbor could watch Jack for an hour while I made brunch. Brilliant.

So I made Quiche, and I based my recipe out of a book that claims to have perfect the art of cooking ratios.

And then I proceeded to do something I never ever ever do: I followed a recipe blindly, without testing it. I added 1.25 tsp of salt to 2 cups half and half and four eggs and Oh My God It's So Salty I Might Have To Spit It Out. 1.25 tsp in 2 cups of half and half, ugh, what was I thinking? I plead temporary insanity.

Oh and I want my money back. I have many recipe sources. Good recipe sources. Why I thought it would be better to grab some random book off the shelf, I don't know, but I learned my lesson. To epicurious and food blogs I will stay committed.

So I'm out of eggs and I'm out of spinach, and I was out of onions to begin with, and my stuffy self simply cannot imagine actually getting into a car and going to the store tomorrow morning, and if there is one thing that New Haven does NOT do well, it is breakfast, so I might just have to grate some smoked gouda over granola when our guests arrive, because that's about all that's left in my fridge.

Phew.

Can someone hand me a kleenex? I'm dying over here.