1) Our charming and old apartment is as drafty as a mother-of-26′s baby canal.  (How dirty!  I have a sinus headache and Charlotte broke my neti pot.  It happens.)

2) Our neighbor is so disgustingly stinky that we need to prop the outside door open.  Warmer weather means that the building gets less cold (not that it’s warm anyway) and that other folks are less likely to close it.

3) I am feeling my age and am achy from lack of good nutrition, lack of exercise and lack of not being a fatass.

And thank God/Jesus/Allah/The Donale for peppermint soap. Oh, peppermint soap. Dude, get some. Get some, and tell them I sent you. Tell them I said HI.

But we haven’t packed a thing. Boxes are on their way. I’m a pretty stellar packer, though. Maybe I’m wired to be nomadic? I have a feeling our distaste for home ownership might be masking a growing desire to move around some more, maybe just travel a bit. Maybe just, I don’t know, change things up?

And we need to measure rooms and furniture and the massive volume of books that we own, go to Ikea (though that part’s fun, and Charlotte likes the colors and the toys she gets when we go there), actually think about what’s going where.

And we need to not melt before then.

This is all cause for stress, but I don’t feel particularly stressed about it. Rather, I’m looking forward to receiving the wood-handled umbrellas we ordered yesterday, in time for a rainy weekend. I spent like two hours researching umbrellas. (I shit you not.) I couldn’t get the color I wanted, and I’m hoping that “khaki” is not code for “off-white.”

Also, all this sitting around sans shirt has me wishing I could lose weight. That I would, rather. That I would.

Would if I could, and all that.

I got to my meeting and had to run to the bathroom to sop up some of the water from my pants with paper towels because I was leaving puddles everywhere.  I had to stop to make the meeting; because I didn’t want my boss’ boss to come in and see; and because I was killing trees like there was no tomorrow.

Post meeting, I wanted my pants to dry on my person because, you know, sitting around the office in your underwear is a little weird.  But it didn’t work, and I got really cold (plus the modem in my office climate control unit is busted, but that’s another story).  So I took off my pants for them to dry on the room-temperate air coming out of my “heater” unit.

Currently, I am sitting in my underwear and undershirt and socks freezing, with my door locked and a Post-It that says, “I’m here — Pants are drying.”  It should probably say, “If you come in here, don’t make fun of my blue underwear.”  Or, maybe funnier, “Come in and get an eyeful of –!”

Of course the sky is clear now, with low and lovely clouds.

But it’s also getting very cold, and I get to have coffee with a good buddy tonight outside, at our adopted clubhouse — the trolley stop on University Parkway.

Today, for December, we have sideways rain and a tornado watch.

But now it’s October, which is supposed to be my favorite month. The windows are closed, and I wore socks last for movie time and a very late dinner at about 10pm, because babies make you busy.  I put out the fall decorations while Charlotte napped and Mommy had to work today, a Sunday.  Pumpkin time, and all that.  Mommy was super pissed that she had to work.  I didn’t realize how long window stickies take to put up by yourself.

In other shitty news, a family friend passed away the other day, suddenly.  She was about my parents’ age.  Of course this has me thinking, in a bad way.  And Charlotte gets to attend her first funeral, in the same local Catholic church where I was an altar boy for around 100 of them (no foolin).  This lady was very freakin cool, too.  But we ran into her when Charlotte was only a few weeks old.  So they got to meet, and I know that I gave her a hug and was glad to see her when last we met.

Still, this is sad.

I’ve never liked hot weather.  But 100+ degree heat indices (and even temperatures!) are dangerous for a baby and have kept us indoors a hell of a lot this summer.  It’s even very hot when we do to the farmers market on Saturday mornings very early.

There’s escape this weekend in the form of temperatures in the mid-upper 8os, less humidity and, well, the sheer desire to go the hell outside!

This is the story of Baltimore’s summer this year.  Everyone who called this year’s snow “piles of global warming” with snark and sheeplike repetition: up yours.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering. Yes. This Lemon Butter Cuticle Cream does, in fact, taste like lemons, too. I ate some.

Shoveling snow two weeks ago when we got the mini blizzard, I was wearing shoes. Wet shoes. My broken toe was killing me. I don’t know if it was the cold, the wet or the shoes. But I do know it feels better in socks and sandals. Too bad everyone stares at me. One bus driver gave me such a look just before the holidays that I was not completely sure he was going to let me on the bus.

My recent injuries hurt a good bit this winter. The non-broken right hand is stiff and painful in the morning. The toe doesn’t like the cold, like the one I shattered pinky toe from 2003. My broken wrist predicts rain, and snow makes it hurt like no one’s business. I was talking about my two metal teeth with my co-worker yesterday, and he said I’m like a roadmap. I think that’s funny. I do need to invent better stories to go along with my defects. My broken teeth? No accident! I defended someone’s honor in a bar fight and got bumbled by three bikers! Etc. Maybe for Baby, when he/she asks why Daddy has metal in his mouth and foot and why his wrist makes noises.

However, in search of better times and making the best of what’s left of autumn, Mrs. P. and I will venture to our very favorite bookstore and perhaps have dinner somewhere in Charles Village, Hampden or Roland Park.  I will have a waterproof messenger bag, so treasures will make it home unscathed.  At least it’s going to be in the upper 50s/lower 60s.  I hate when it rains just shy of the freezing point.  Unless I’m cycling.  I do get a kick out of that.

Curiously, Normal’s is on 31st Street, where I blew a spoke last Sunday and had to miss the ride I’d spent so much time helping to plan.  Much better tidings today, I think.

My bike is out of commission currently.  Yes, breaking a rear spoke on the drive side can make your wheel no longer turn without hitting the frame.  No, this does not, as has been suggested, make me a wimp or perfectionist.  It’s a matter of my understanding bike wheels, at least a little bit.  Plus, there’s the empirical smack-your-ass part where my wheel literally does not turn.  The shop will take care of it; it’s under warranty.  It’s a good excuse to visit my favorite bike shop.

I need to get some new books and spend quality time with the Mrs. and our little belly/Baby.  As if it’s not obvious, I’m growing increasingly less patient with people’s bullshit.  A nice walk usually helps a lot.