Today marks the start of the Great Baby Stuff Hunt. My mission: to obtain a highchair of the better quality for the least money. My first stops: the two thrift stores on Broadway between E and H streets. Unfortunately, nada. While the second one had an excellant baby and kid section, including several recent model car seats, no highchairs. I saw a tray-like object on a top shelf, and contorted my body into a position that revealed how long it's been since I shaved under my arms, but alas. It was only a Johnny-Jump-Up. Not a high chair.

I want to get my butt in gear and get this done before the KittyCat comes back home. It would be a hell of a lot easier to do this now, instead of later. Especially since she's more nosy and mobile than ever.

Last night I gave in to temptation and ordered a pizza. Not just for the garlic sauce tub, but in part because I have a Plan. A New Plan. One that will prevent me from eating nothing but pizza and aggravating my stomach into a bout of horrible gut-wrenching pains that make natural childbirth seem laughable. Uh, there's a reason that I had a c-section, folks. There's another reason, besides the breech presentation and the fact that my cervix was tighter than a nun's chastity belt, why they cut me open. And why they gave me lots and lots of Nice Drugs to help with the pain afterwards. Um, right. The Plan. I'm going to pack up about half of the pizza to freeze in nice snack-size portions. This way I'll only eat half of the pizza with it's yummy pepperoni and spicy sausage. mmmm. sausage.

I need to go and take some more prilosec now.