Domestic Bliss

The dog and I are playing a game I call Chicken Standoff. I ordered chicken shawarma for lunch and ate about half of it. The rest is in a Styrofoam container on the floor. The lid is open and the dog can see leftover chicken and rice. She's been staring at it for about an hour, whining. She won't touch it, but if the housekeeper tries to pick up the container or even go near it, she attacks.

I was looking through my stuff today and found a stuffed animal I bought for my eventual child. I bought this like three years ago or so. I didn't even like stuffed animals as a kid; I assume that trait is hereditary. I also have a list of possible names for my eventual child. When I get pregnant, my husband can choose a name off the list. Lately I've been worried about infertility, though. I mean, I do sit the laptop on my ovaries a lot, and I had a pelvic X-ray two years ago, and I take all these anticonvulsants, and I want a baby, which is kind of a jinx. And everyone says, oh, you can adopt, but I want the baby to look like me, glorious, gorgeous me. My mom says my eventual husband's DNA could override mine and I could get some non-me kid, but creo que esta equivocada. My genes are pretty forceful.