Apparently, Chris has cleaned up the apartment his grandparents let him stay in. This is the same apartment that he was allowing his pet iguana to run free in. Also the apartment where he had piles of his clothes everywhere, where he'd allowed friends to stay, where he'd boozed his friends on his grandfather's beer stock from the store and where he'd overslept consistently, to wit, often not showing up for his appointed shifts at the store. Finally it got so bad, that Mike's grandparents removed him from the schedule and asked him to find alternative housing. Suddenly, he thought it would be good to clean the place at that point. Imagine that.

To be fair, he paid for his own lunch afterwards, even though he tortured us with the latest and greatest about wheat grass. Where has this kid been? Wheat grass was hip and happening about 10 years ago. Mike says he suspects that he no longer listens to Rush Limbaugh. I said, "Isn't long-haired Republican an oxymoron?" We both giggled hysterically.

I've got new baby pictures up. Hit your back button to get back. I've got no return to the journal because it's viewed by a lot of family members I'd rather weren't scurrying about in my journal.

I've got indisputable proof that Genny was not a child of the milklady:

Except for her eyes, this child is a dead on likeness. She wasn't an accidental in vitro pregnancy or something.

Sometimes, I can't belive I've gotten so lucky. I guess I've had so much bad luck, that I often feel like I'm waiting for the other shoe to fall. I keep thinking,"I can't have this perfect a baby and a son." After so much misery, this life I have is a miracle.