Thursday, October 21, 2004
Botox.* Heh, That’s Funny. But Who’s Your Daddy?
I stopped by Kat’s to console her (sort of) about her team losing. And “losing” is putting it kindly. As much of an ass-kicking as the game was, I really thought that the Red Sox were gonna crumble when they put Pedro in to pitch. Hello, remember last year?
Now, for my wife’s sake (and mine), I really want to not care about baseball anymore. So here’s what we need to happen: The Astros need to win Game 7 tonight, and then the Red Sox need to rain down a gadzillion home runs on the “Rocket” so he’ll fucking retire for good, and then the Red Sox need to finally break The Curse.
In other news, I have blood all over my shirt.
After I’d left the house with Mia (on the way to an eye appointment, then daycare), I noticed there was blood on her shirt, her left hand, her left arm, and scattered other places on her body. She didn’t seem to be in pain, or really bothered by it much, but there was quite a bit of blood. Then I noticed I had blood on my shirt where I’d been holding her. I dug out a wipe and gave it to her to get the blood off her hands; she played with it for a second and then put the wipe down on the seat next to her.
When we got to the hospital, I used the wipe to get all the blood off of her and couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. It could’ve been a puncture wound on her fingertip, but I couldn’t see it. Was it paint from the living room?
Anyway, because I
* how Kat refers to the "BoSox"