The J-Man is home sick AGAIN. He has been puking steadily since last night, puking into butter containers, puking on the floor, puking (miraculously) into the toilet, puking, puking, puking. I am feeding him toast and 7Up and watching him, warily, waiting for the next onslaught.

I don’t know what the hell is going on with this child, really. I am worried, and of course the damned pediatrician can’t see him until the tenth of March.

He looks peaked.

Still no fever, still good spirits, still no lack of appetite.

I am stumped. I am disinclined to take him to the ER because other than the puking he is fine, I’m keeping him hydrated, and he seems to be in good spirits. I’m not sure what the ER would even DO.

I don’t freaking know. This is one of those times in which I really wish I’d read the manual.

You know, that manual they hand you at the hospital when they give you your little bundle of joy?

Right.

He’s in my mom’s bed right now, laughing his ass off at Spongebob or some shit. He really doesn’t look SICK, maybe a little pale, which is odd for him, but not SICK.

I am kerflummoxed.

And that is all I have to say about that.

In other news, I am obsessed with the show Say Yes To The Dress.

Stupid, I know. Stupid, and very unlike me.

The premise of the show is that all these starry-eyed brides go to a wedding salon (Kleinfeld’s, in New York City) and search for the wedding dress of their dreams. It’s sappy. It’s totally mushy. Watching these brides cry over dresses with their mothers is pure schmaltz.

I can’t get enough of it.

Although I HIGHLY doubt I will EVER take a trip down the aisle, I have a confession to make:

I fucking LOVE wedding dresses.

I love them. I absolutely adore them. I even have my virtual wedding dress all picked out. A-line or ballgown, nothing too cupcake, no lace, no ruffles, not a lot of beading, maybe a little chiffon or tulle overlay, possibly some corseting, strapless or spaghetti strap.

I am such a sap.

I am also in love with the gay fashion director of the salon, one Randy Fenoli, who fulfills the fantasy of my perfect gay boyfriend. I want to run away with him on a random cross-country trip in which we would hit every bridal salon on Route 66 and try on wedding dresses and drink pomegranate martinis.

There you have it, I am a super lame lame-o of the lamest proportions.

I don’t want a wedding, really. I just want the dress and the party. So if someone would like to marry me on these terms, I would be more than willing to go for it.

Any takers?

Happy Friday.

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