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Because The Guy on my Couch has a job that requires a car, and I am benevolent enough to allow him to use mine, I’m stranded at my house most of the time. It’s okay – really. I get to indulge in my workaholic ways as much as I want without the pesky Real World getting in the way.

It’s okay until I have to go to the doctor. THEN, I have to ask my mother to drive me. Which, I tell everyone, is a condition of my parole, but that’s a lie – I’m on house arrest.

On Tuesday, my mother picked me up and took me to the endocrinologist so I could a) note that I’d gained 10 pounds, and 2) cry because I’d gained 10 pounds. Also: my 6 month check-up.

Of all my doctors, my endo is my favorite and not just because I get to People Watch in the waiting room and loudly proclaim – I HAVE A GLANDULAR PROBLEM in a high nasally voice (although that helps)(it’s not like I can be all I HAVE A VAGINA in my OB’s office)(it’s redundant).


Having a glandular problem not NEARLY as glamorous as you might think – I was ultimately convinced that my thyroid – that asshole – had taken off for greener, less diseased pastures. Like Detroit or Wyoming or something.

Turns out that I was wrong.

My thyroid is still firmly ensconced in my neck and, here’s where shit gets awesome, has grown a friend. His asshole friend carries a 5% risk of cancer. With friends like these, you don’t need enemies.

I’m sure it’s nothing. Probably a benign cyst or an oyster or diamond or something.

At least, I hope.

I sure do like diamonds. And horses. Not zebras. Never zebras.

My parents, when they remembered, measured my height on the back of the door to the basement. It was there that I could see how much I’d grown over the past years and a good way to be all, “I’m not THAT short” when my brother called me Stumpy. I was also, I recall, horrified by what my mother called “her handwriting.”

I’d probably do the same thing in my own house – for my KIDS, not ME – but all my doors are stained wood – nothing white here. So I have to do other things in order to see how much they’ve all grown.

Back in April, 2008, I bought myself Big Mac – a 24 inch computer that was hella awesomer than my previous computer – a 10 inch iBook with a broken screen. It was on that computer that I vowed I’d “write a book,” and “watch dancing kittens playing the piano.”

I did.

When I bought it, rather than simply take a picture of the technology, I decided to pose someone in front of it.

MUCH more interesting that way.

Also: SQUEE at chunky Baby Legs!

Alas, all good things must come to an end. Big Mac had been wheezing and choking along, trying to keep up with me as I beat on it day in and day out.

Last weekend, I’d finally had enough when, once again, Big Mac decided that I didn’t really NEED to be working any more (Big Mac LIES! I must! work! more!) for the eleventy billionth time that week. HOW DARE MY COMPUTER JUDGE ME FOR WORKING!

It was then that I realized Big Mac and I were soon to be parted.

Luckily I had just the thing to fix that.

Pranksters, meet Big Mac II.

Also: look at how far that chubby baby has come. He’s the one in the blue nerd shirt. His sister, Amelia, wasn’t even a twinkle in my eyes when Big Mac 1 came home.

(and no, that’s not Mountain Dew* OR pee in that bottle – it’s lemonade. They were playing “baby.”)

Amazing how far we’ve all come, isn’t it?

*my kids are NOT stoners.

Amelia loves books. Shocking, I know, since I’m barely literate, but there you have it: genetics are fucking weird.

Anyway, for her birthday, she got a good number of books. Being the last of three, it’s nice for her to get something that’s NOT a hand-me-down from her brothers, so she eagerly tears into them. And, really, anything else, but that’s neither here nor there.

I was laying on the couch trying to beat a particularly vicious level of Angry Birds on my iPad when she padded over and plopped a book – from her birthday – onto my lap. Politely she asked me to read it.

“Okay,” I said, giving the stink-eye to those stupid pigs on Angry Birds, “come on up.”

Wow. That’s fucking cute! I thought to myself as I began to read.

Aww, they’re friends. I bet this is gonna be an ebony/ivory kinda story – you can be friends with anyone! What a great moral that is for kids.

And now a monkey as a friend! Wow, what a great story this is. And the pictures? Amazaballs. Plus, I mean, a PRESENT? Who doesn’t love a good present?

Okay, now you’re losing me, book. Cooking is bullshit. CookBOOKs are bullshit. But okay, the kid prolly thinks this is great. I’ll soldier on.



I thought they were BFFOMGLOL. And now we’re talking about EATING our friends? What the shit kind of story IS this?


There’s dead mouse every-fucking-where! But! But! Mouse loved to PAINT! They were BFFLOLOMG!

How can you EAT your BFF?


It was then that I closed the book.

Who the hell WRITES these kind of books anyway?


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