Stream of consciousness

Today I wanted to do something fun.

But unless you count running to the grocery store to stock up on more milk, bread and oranges and vacuuming the car out as fun, I'd have to say I didn't quite accomplish the goal.

Part of my problem is that I've tapped into a whole new meaning of tired. Most mornings I wake up feeling exhausted. This morning was no different. I tottered out of bed to feed myself and the fishes, milled around through some of my favorite blogs, and then oddly enough ended up back in bed about 45 minutes later.

I resisted the urge to go to Target (which definitely falls into the "very fun" category for me). Because even though there are a few items I do need to pick up, I would have somehow subconsciously ended up in front of the shoe aisle and then the baby aisle and Tom's highly concerned that I've gone a little overboard as of late. Which I can assure you I haven't. I know exactly what overboard looks like—and it doesn't even resemble me.

But it's okay, I guess. It's not like I haven't had my share of fun. Just last night we went to see "How to Train Your Dragon" (which I definitely recommend) with Rachel and Nate and then scarfed down all the deliciousness to be had at Goodwood.

Have you been there? You should go pronto.

Rachel and Nate. I've been meaning to mention those two. They moved from Vegas to here. And how cute is this—they moved in directly across the street. Now we're quaint little neighbors who borrow flour and molasses and chicken feed from each other.

And more on Rachel. Which I've been meaning to mention. In February she hosted a lovely baby shower for me in Las Vegas. Yet shortly afterward she broke her ankle and sprained the other (yes, you read that right), had to have surgery, and has been more or less immobile ever since. If you want to know how she managed to break her ankle and sprain the other, stand by; we're in the process of formulating a story that sounds a lot cooler than what actually happened. Anyway, compound this whole incident with the fact that she and Nate were in the process of moving states. Seemingly, the only good news is that she scored a ten speed wheelchair out of it and is learning to pop wheelies.

So when I mentioned our jaunt inside Joanns the other day, it's even more appropriate to be able to picture us in our true form: she scooching around in her wheelchair with me waddling beside her, leaving trails of ribbon and buttons in our wake. We make quite the duo these days.

I would apologize for getting off topic, however I do believe I never had an actual topic to begin with.

So to leave you on this fine Saturday night, I'd like to say a word or two more about the wheeze laugh. Not because anyone asked me to discuss the "phenomenon" further, but because I figured, why not?

(Go ahead, pretend this Getty man is me.)

Vital things to know about the wheeze laugh.

• It's almost always triggered by something that's really not that funny.

(• Which, frankly makes it all the funnier, I say.)

• It always results in desperate gasping for breath and a torrential downpour of tears.

• Tom usually makes each episode worse by throwing out little phrases like, "here we go again," or "I'll wait while you figure this one out," or "take all the time you need."

• It's been known to knock me out of commission for at least 20 minutes before I'm sane again.

For instance:

• Once I was reading an article aloud and misread a word.

...You get the idea. Like I said—really not that funny.

Furthermore:

• I have never wheeze laughed in my life until pregnancy.

I do know that I'm not the only one in my family to have onsets of maniacal laughter during pregnancy. My brother-in-law loves to tell the story of how my sister completely lost it in a grocery store when he (or maybe she) dropped something. And when she laughs hysterically she starts making an unidentifiable noise that I can only liken to a squawking bird. And although I know of no accounts, it wouldn't surprise me in the least if my other sister has had similar problems during pregnancy. I do know, however, that when she's hit with a hearty chortle, her nostrils flare in and out.

So basically, we're just short a snorter.

Would you ever have guessed the Purcell females to be so slap happy?

I wouldn't have.