Man, oh man am I feeling full of The Laziness today, but as I have committed (at least in my head) to trying to post something every day on this here blog, I have decided that the only way to accomplish this somewhat lofty goal is to do a post in bullet form.

*Alex has decided that rice cereal is as nasty as it looks. So nasty, in fact, that he no longer wants to take part in having it grace his now discriminatory palate. Luckily, he thinks Pear/Pineapple and Carrots are akin to heaven, so he has been eating them with gusto. He has also taken a liking to my nonfat/gross/foul yogurt, which is taking me out of my lazy slump to head out to get him his own kind. Because the kid doesn’t need Splenda quite yet. At least not until he’s 12.

*Today, I gave him a graham cracker (don’t worry, not the honey kind, I checked) which he summarily destroyed all over his bouncy seat leaving the dog in new heights of ecstacy, unparelled by only the mere mention of broccoli. Yes, my dog adores broccoli and carrots. He’s strange and sausage shaped and kind of stupid, but we love him. Well, except for when he fights with skunks. Then we call him variations of dumbass for the next couple of weeks.

*I recently started using some self-tanning lotion, which frightens me, as I have visions of myself looking like a slightly chubby, streaky carrot. I have this old friend you see (well, she’s not old per se, but I’ve known her since pretty much forever) who comes into town bringing me a bag full of cast offs from the lotion store that she works at. She’s brought me a bunch of self tanners before, but I was pregnant, and the smell bothered my sensitive nose, so I gave it all away. Now that I’m not pregnant, I’ve realized that it wasn’t actually pregnancy nose that prevented me from using it before. No, it just completely smells horrific. Either way, my previously pasty baby is emitting a nice sun kissed glow (I kid, I kid).

*Week 2 of The Diet is going swimmingly. I’ve lost another 2 pounds, which of course makes me extremely happy, although I have to admit, I wish those numbers were going down FASTER. I can so see why the no/low carb diets are popular, and sometimes I wish that I could do them without, of course, the anal leakage. Other than that, it’s a good diet, it makes sense and best of all NO BOXED MEALS (shudders dramatically).

*I am a touch anal (how many times can I mention the word butt, ass, or anal in a post? Many, many times.) and a little OCD, so when I got a note from Ben’s school in red ink demanding that a book that we read last week be returned to them I got a little panicky. I distinctly remember sending the book back to school, I signed for it certifying (which is a total hoot. *Me*, signing stuff like *that.* Man, I really am a mother, aren’t I?) that we’d indeed read it and now it’s gone. My gut tells me that the book has been lost at school, and I’d bet $150 that I’d sent it back, but all the same, it’s making me unnaturally upset that it’s gone BECAUSE I DON’T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO DO ABOUT IT. I’m not going to argue with it, and since I come across as well, different, in writing I need to make sure that they have checked thoroughly at school prior to sending them a check for the stupid book.

Dear Daver,

Remember that old Chinese curse, “May You Live In Interesting Times?” Well, darling, I think that applies quite nicely for the year. Can you believe we’ve been married a whole two years now? I remember last year, how nicely I’d put up a post on our actual anniversary and I mentioned what a hard year it had been. Little did I know what Year Two held in store for us.

I was already pregnant with Alexander, who was just a blob at that point, but he was MY blob and I was fiercely protective of him, so when I started to spot I was completely devestated and paranoid about losing him. Then hyperemesis began, and I kind of lost my will to live (remember when I couldn’t take showers because the sensation made me vomit, and the drain was clogged, so when I did vomit, I had to manually scoop the vomitus out of the drain myself? God that was fun!), which actually survived the duration of the pregnancy. I was like a pregnant, flatulent, chubby, and miserable bag of wind who sat on the couch and cried. And then demanded creme brulee. And then cried some more. Then I would throw up the creme brulee I had just eaten while crying.

Life was good (hey, at least the toliets were ALWAYS cleaned to sparkling perfection, because the old pee and pubes made me gag even more). It’s no wonder that we both burst into gales of hysterical laughter when we talk about having more kids.

This year, you have watched uncomfortably as countless people examined my hoo-haa, and not even in an orgy setting. Remember when I thought that my water had broken, but really I had simply peed my pants? And then it happened again in March. Wow, those were fun times.

Then The Sweet Baby (a.k.a Your Clone) was born, and around three months of age, he pulled himself off the boob and took a breath. No matter how sleepless the nights were, it was far better than being pregnant, and now, every time that you walk into the room, both of the children light up and run to you, well, Ben runs and Alex’s body just shakes and writhes with sheer joy. It’s moments like these that I know that no matter what it took to get us here, it was worth every second of agony and pain that we underwent to get here.

I know that this letter is late in coming, but we were fighting on our anniversary and I wasn’t feeling particularly charitable that day, well, until you gave me my anniversary present. You sure know how to soothe the savage beast within me: jewelry, fatty jewelry (and just so you know, this didn’t make up for the bathroom. You’re NEVER going to hear the end of that. Unless you muzzle me).

We made it, baby, we made it. Maybe not with our sanity fully intact, but hey, kids make you a little crazy, don’t they? Now, I know better than to ask for a more sedate year, but can this one be a LITTLE bit less insane, PLEASE?

Love always,
Becky

P.S. Do you think the neighbors would notice if I stole their Halloween decorations and put them up in our yard? Hypothetically, I mean, because, err, I would never, ever do that for reals. (Um, mostly)

I’m having a hard day today, and the worst part of it is that I have no idea why. Having an overly emotional mother has left me with a pretty amazing ability to take each emotion that comes through my mind, turn it around, and examine why I feel a certain way and if it is an appropriate feeling to be having. After all feelings are not facts, which is something many people struggle with.

Part of the problem is that I’m a bit used up after this weekend, because in my role in our house, I am the go-to person. Having a bad day? Tell Becky why and she’ll try to make it better. Need a problem solved, go-to Becky/Mom. NEED TO EAT RIGHT NOW, OHMYGOD I NEED TO EAT MOOOOOOOOOOMMM, Mom will make it and feed you. Most of the time, I can handle this and take it all in stride. I’m awesome at multi-tasking, if I do say so myself (and I always do, don’t I?), but sometimes, just sometimes, I need someone else to take the ship and steer it without my help. Last week, because when it rains, it pours, it just wasn’t possible to fix it all and leave anything left of my sanity. There was at no point, during any of my days last week that SOMEONE didn’t need me for SOMETHING RIGHTNOWRIGHTNOWRIGHTNOW, and I’m just shot.

I knew I was in for it last night when I realized that I haven’t been able to eat all of my Weight Watchers POINTS this week, as I am an emotional non-eater. I actually stood at the cabinet last night trying to find something worth approximately 16 POINTS (which is a lot, if you don’t know anything about the diet). I decided on a Colorado Bulldog (a strong drinky-drink), which is like the worst thing for you ever, because I just couldn’t handle the thought of putting real food into my mouth.

The only healthy solution that I have ever been able to use to quell the upsetedness (I loves me my confabulation) is to do hard manual work. As such, my house is now reaping the benefits of having me in a stew–it’s glistening and shining and smells awesome. It worked for awhile, but now that raw feeling is creeping back in, so I’m comforting myself that tomorrow will be a new day and I’ll start to feel more human again.

Sometimes, I just wonder what it’s gonna take.

(this is a reprint of a post I wrote in May, but I wanted to say it all again after reading my new issue of People. It is, probably, my favorite post that I have ever written, and is for sure the most honest.)

No parent ever wants to hear that something is wrong with their child; that their offspring is not completely perfect.

Realizing the magnitude of being entrusted to care for, nurture, raise and eventually let go of a new life is both mindboggling and awe-inspiring as well as terrifying. Before my first was born, I could barely be considered responsible to care for an aquarium, and rightly so: I was just 20.

Having had no experience with babies, I had no idea that mine was abnormal. He hated human touch, he preferred to watch his mobile spin around to looking at faces. His first word was not ‘œMama’ or ‘œDada’ or even ‘œBaba:’ it was ‘œtock-tock.’ His phrase for ‘œtick-tock’ referring to the grandfather clock in the hallway which he adored. I’d be lying if I claimed that I wasn’t devestated by his total lack of interest in me and his distain for my touch, but I assumed that this was just the way he was. Different strokes for different folks and all that happy horseshit.

Shortly after his first birthday, he was introduced to the planets through a Baby Einstein video. Before he could recognize emotions, he knew 4 of the moons of Jupiter and could identify them from different angles. *I* couldn’t even do that. Rather than wanting to read Goodnight Moon, I took him to Borders and he picked out an encyclopedia of the solar system intended for adults, which he memorized cover to cover. He could spend hours at the Planetarium but screamed bloody murder at the zoo. I’d come home from class to several different ‘œsolar systems’ he’d created out of balls, each true to form. His depth of knowledge was amazing and freakish and I have no real way to illustrate that to you here.

This was all before his second birthday.

I had realized, of course, that he wasn’t speaking as much as What To Expect During The First Year said that he should, but considering the authors militant stand about their stupid pregnancy diet in their stupid pregnancy book, I wasn’t too worried. I just assumed that he was developing at a different rate than others his age. I mean, what 17 month old can tell you what Pluto’s moon is? (mine could). I had also figured that no one had really encouraged his speaking abilities, being the only child/grandchild, we all spoke for him.

At his 2 year check-up, his regular ped was out and his partner told me in no uncertain terms that not only could he not understand him, but that he would be writing a referral out for an evaluation from Early Interventions. I left that appointment not only upset with the manner in which the doctor had spoken to me (‘How dare he talk to me like that?’) but by the fact that I hadn’t even thought anything was wrong.

Several times, different evaluators came out to our house to observe him and speak with me about his behaviors. Many of the questions provoked lightbulbs in my head, a ‘œso THAT’S why he does _____! (only eats 3 things, becomes so overwhelmed by touch that he screams inconsolably, lines up his toys by color on the stairs, has an insane facination with spinning things, knows WAAAAAYYY too much about the solar system, flaps his arms whenever he’s excited)’ which really only made me feel worse about the things I had never noticed, or had noticed but considered quirks.

I drew the line at recieving a formal medical diagnosis however, because as a nurse and the daughter of a mentally ill mother, I am completely aware how these things follow you for the rest of your life until you can only define yourself by them. Does that make sense to you? Let me give you an example: I (myself here) am dyslexic, have Crohn’s disease, and have a latex/iodine/shellfish allergy. But does that make me who I am? Not one bit, but not only do I catch myself excusing away things based on this, it has become a teeny tiny but integral part of my self image. And I do not have any behavioral problems to excuse away (i.e. ‘œI’ll never be able to sit still because I have ADD, therfore I won’t even try.’)

Without a totally formal diagnosis, he was explained to be on the autistic spectrum and speech and occupational therapies began immediately. For almost two years, he recieved both therapies and began to make strides toward more normal behavior. He began to speak more frequently and clearly in addition to being able to deal with more and more textures, consistencies, and tastes. His more interesting quirks remain to this day, thankfully, as they are part of what makes him who he is.

My soon to be husband and I enrolled him into private school when he turned three to enrich his social skills, as he had no children his own age to play with at home. I’m not sure that these social skills will ever be what is considered totally normal, but they have improved by leaps and bounds, possibly to the point that an innocent bystander would not realize how much he had once struggled to do something as simple as recognize basic emotions.

I have still struggled through numerous thoughtless comments from both parents and non-parents alike (‘why won’t he eat anything but junk food?’) who have somehow gotten it in their head that his problems are little more than an issue of bad parenting. I have suffered through years of guilt and regret (had *I* done something to cause this?) I have spent cold meal after cold meal coaxing him to eat something that looks different or *is* different. I continue to worry about what his life will be like as he grows older and begins to interact more with the general population: will they be gentle and understanding of his uniqueness or will they tease and mock him mercilessly? Have we done enough to prepare him for the world? I have spent hours upon hours reassuring him that completing a ritual out of order was just fine, and comforting him from afar while wanting nothing more than to sweep him in my arms and kiss his tears away.

I have had to accept that my child is not perfect.

Is this the worst thing that could happen to a mother? Certainly not; he’s happy, he’s healthy, and above all else he is loved unconditionally. Having seen babies born without brains and hearing them cry (possibly the worst sound in the world. It’s loud and atonal), I am aware that I got off pretty easy here. But competing in the Pain Olympics isn’t why I wrote this post.

As you all know, I am not one to use this blog as a politcal forum, nor am I likely to spend time talking about my feelings here, or elsewhere. But I came across this website where you can help kids with autism. Is it real? I think so. If not, well, the song is kind of cute anyway. Either way, this band has supposedly pledged to donate $0.49 for every time this video is watched. It can’t hurt, it can only help.

We all have hopes for our children. As for me, I just hope that he knows how much I have loved him.

When I was pregnant with Ben 6 years ago now, I was utterly floored to find out that he was indeed a he, so floored that it was a miracle I had been laying down for the sonogram because if I hadn’t been, I’d have fallen over from the shock of it. My intuition is terrible, almost as bad as my ability to sing on key, which is pretty horrifying. I’ll admit it now, I was pretty upset by it as I had really, truly, madly, deeply wanted to have a daughter (let’s be honest here so that I can tell you that it was a damn good thing that I found out then and not later in the delivery room. I’m sure the doctor and nurses would have been a little freaked out by the sight of me crying over the privates of my perfect little boy, as apparently I had been judged to be an unfit mother. I guess I must have a poker face when it comes to OB appointments, because my ancient little doctor who barely said a word to me in the nine months that I saw him, kept coming into my postpartum room and saying “Wow, you REALLY love that baby!” which shocked me. Of COURSE I loved my ickle baby!)

When I got pregnant with Alexander, I was much more laid back about it, likely because it had taken quite a long time to get pregnant, as long as It was healthy, I genuinely didn’t care if It was a She or a He. I found out before Dave did, as the sonographer refused to let him come into the room until she had completed her assessment of the fetus, which I wasn’t so happy about, I mean, what if something had been wrong? Did I really need a stranger to tell me some bad news alone?

Anyhow, she asked me if I wanted to know what flavor baby I was having without Dave’s hulking presence (hahaha) and of course, I’m impatient so I found out. I can still hear her in my mind, “It’s a little boy and he’s perfect.” Ah, sweet sweet relief, the baby I had wanted so much was well (to be fair here, having had the misfortune to rotate through the NICU at a major children’s hospital, I took nothing about the health of my unborn child as an assumption of the best. I saw many, many horrifying things there, most of which will never leave me and STILL haunt me even now), and now I could gloat: I had won the bet.

Instead of having to wear a “Chicks Dig Linux” shirt, Dave was going to have to wear a Britney Spears one. In public. Without covering it up. Which reminds me…I need to make him DO that and THEN I’ll post them on the internet for him! I’m such a nice wife.

The discussion of having another baby has recently come up, as my initial intent was to not go back on birth control and just wait-n-see what happened, get the newborn/baby thing done with and get Dave’s nuts snipped (again: aren’t I a SWEET wife?), and while our other friends were dealing with midnight feedings and diaper rash, we’d be sipping Pina Colada’s by the beach somewhere, laughing knowingly. Unfortch, Lake Michigan doesn’t exactly count as a beach in my book, AND I think if I were to have an Oops! Baby! now Dave’s head might explode and Alex might try to strangle me in my sleep.

So no babies for awhile (besides you need to actually ovulate to have babies, and the one benefit that I can see to Alex’s need to wake up at all hours of the night and eat is that I haven’t had my period since last July.) for us. A long while, actually, because the prospect of physically being pregnant again freaks me the hell out. I’m a TERRIBLE pregnant woman, a fat, obsessive, unhappy, and sick as hell.

But (isn’t there always one with me?), I have a new problem. Suddenly, I really, really, really want to have a daughter with every fiber of my being, in order to balance out all of the testosterone raging rampantly throughout my house. I want to play house and dolls and put her in cute ickle dresses and OOOHHH PATENT LEATHER MARY JANES! I want to choose a name that I really, really like for her and not have to worry about it being too trendy or frilly or not manly enough (plus, between the two boys and their 209 middle names, I’m clean out of good boys names), I want to not have to cut off her hair because it’s “too long” and “too girly looking”. I want someone who maybe just maybe looks somewhat like me and have it not be an insult to them later in life, because what boy do you know WANTS to look like his mother? I don’t want to have to train yet another young boy how to pee standing up WITHOUT losing aim because Oh! Look! A Mirror!

It’s okay to have wants, although I am highly afraid of what I would feel if/when we have another baby and it turns out to have yet another penis. Because frankly, I have enough of them to worry about.

Last Thursday, Dear Internet, I told you that I was done whining about being fat and was going to start really DOING something about it. And, because I cannot tell a lie to you, darling Internet, I did. I joined Weight Watchers Online. I’d done a hacked up version of it before, after my wedding and I’d lost about 10 lbs (but I was obviously much thinner then). It’s a diet I can live with and (apparently) works for me.

Tuesday, I weighed myself and I’ve lost 2.5 pounds, which is a little over 10% of the upper end of what I’d wanted to lose before Christmas Eve. If that isn’t motivation, I’m not sure what is. This doesn’t mean that I won’t offer up a silent prayer before I get onto the scale each week, because I happen to be superstitious like that, but I am hoping that the numbers continue to go down in a reasonable manner, because I cannot do those low-carb diets (one word: anal leakage. Oh wait, that’s two words. My bad. Now I’m fat AND dumb!)

The kicker of all of this is, is that I’m actually eating MORE than I was before (although I am frankly AGHAST at the points values of some of the things I’d thought were pretty decent for you. Who knew that the huge tortilla that you get at Chipotle ITSELF has 7 points? Asinine, really, especially considering I don’t even really care for the tortilla part), which honestly goes against everything that I’d thought about dieting. Dieting = eating LESS, not MORE in my head, or at least it used to.

So I am not hungry, I don’t feel as though I have to subsist on boxed meals, and occasionally I have to force myself to finish my points for the day. (Ohmygod, did you know that creme brulee has about a million calories in it? I DIDN’T. That sucks, because it is BY FAR my favorite dessert. I loves me my creme brulee.)

Now I just need to secure some babysitting so my ass can get back to the gym and burn some more of those damn calories off (did you know, because I didn’t, but with breastfeeding, you need an additional 10 points per day!?! That’s awesome. I may never wean him.)

Week One of Operation Get Rid of My Fat Butt is done. Let’s hope that Week Two is as awesomely awesome.

I started this blog several months ago as a sort of Mommy Blog, not necessarily because I didn’t like my other blog, because I do, but because I needed somewhere to chronicle what day to day life is like when you’re somewhat outside looking in. I don’t have a ton of Real Life Mommy Friends ™, which can be hard for me sometimes as I don’t have people to reassure my feelings or experiences. Not the end of the world, no doubt, but surely I wanted somewhere where I could really be me, without constant humor or judgement from those who do know me.

I wish I’d started it sooner because it has been a tremendous outlet for me.

Now, to be clear, I am not particularly computer savvy. Wait, scratch that, I am not computer savvy, and the only reason I am able to have a blog is because Dave set them both up for me. I have been known to try and respond to spam email because, hey, I thought it might actually be for me (I don’t get much email). Thankfully, Dave stopped me from being too much of an idiot (to be fair, it wasn’t an email for pen!s enl@rgement or V!@gra or anything of the like), and I have since learned not to be completely stupid.

Today, I noticed that I had a comment from someone who has not been to my house and seen first hand the swirls of dog hair floating in the breeze and he mentioned that I had been nominated for an award. This blew my mind as I had only thought that the people who read this blog were people who knew me!

At this point, I am so freaking flattered that I don’t even CARE if it’s a spam thing (although I don’t believe that it is). I don’t actually expect to win, as I have never won anything in my life, unless you count the Cougar’s tickets I won when I was twelve and the team was just starting out and they were practically giving the tickets away to fill seats. I don’t gamble and I don’t win, but hey, whoever nominated me, I will totally write a post in your honor if you tell me who you are and what you want me to talk about because you have made my day infinately better.

So thank you, whomever you are, thank you.

Dermatologists are strange creatures. Being a nurse, I’ve run into a whole slew of doctors, and I have to say, dermatologists are the strangest of the lot.

Let me back up for a second: back in August, at Ben’s 6 year old checkup my non-alarmist ped (which I love, love, love, especially since he is our GP. He’s an old military doctor, very no nonsense and I adore him) noticed a mole on his back that he wanted someone else to take a look at. I felt pretty bad, mainly because I’m trained to notice this sort of stuff and I hadn’t. Probably because at 6, I don’t often examine Ben’s body sans clothes.

So I dutifully made the appointment for him, and yesterday I pulled him out of school to visit this dermatologist. And thus began the day that should have been good.

We waited for over an hour to see this guy only to have him quiz me incessiantly about the state of this mole, when it popped out, if there had been any changes in it, if it bothered Ben whatsoever. When I confessed that I had no idea about anything to do with it (to me it looks fine, and I never would have thought to have a specialist take a gander, but hey, I trust my GP/ped impeccibly). We were sent on our way, slightly creeped out by his strange manner (he spent a good time stroking Ben’s large head of hair, which was just strange and made me take a mental note to NEVER, EVER leave my child alone with this man) with an appointment for 3 months to check if it’s changed.

My error came on the way home when I decided to keep Ben home from school for the rest of the day. Visions of having two children home together playing sweetly danced in my head, which turned out to be just that: pipe dreams.

Alex was furious because he had to go poop and couldn’t seem to actually do it (damn you mushed bananas, you will never grace his palate again–I should have known better–the B in the BRAT diet does stand for bananas).

Ben was unhappy because he was tired and bored and wanted to play with his frrrrriiiiieeeennnndddsss, which meant his normally decent attention span was less than that of a mosquito and he was supremely whiny.

The whole day was like being pecked to death by two extremely cute chickens with the only highlight being when Ben decided to “play” with his brother while he was in his Exersaucer. Pretty much, all that Ben has to do is get down next to Alex’s face and make noise to make Alex belly laugh. It’s freaking adorable.

I was waiting for the sweet salvation of bedtime to relax and unwind for an hour or two. Har-dee-har-freaking-harr.

As Alex was finally falling asleep nearly an hour after his normal bedtime, Dave let the dog out…

Wait for it…

Wait for it…

Wait for it…

And the dog, in his infinate wisdom, decided that RIGHT NOW was the appropriate time to tangle with the neighborhood skunk yet again. Off to the garage with H2O2 and baking soda again.

Then we realized that the reason for the exorbitant electric bill was not due to turning the A/C temperature down at night, but was due to the fact that the unit is now starting to fail. Thankfully, it’s September in Chicago, and we should be able to live off box fans (I’m deluded, I’m aware).

After the dog had been sucessfully cleaned, the baby began to scream loudly. And continued to scream on and off every time that I started to fall asleep, until I finally gave up and just slept holding him all night long (which reminded me of those glorious newborn days).

It’s lucky that I long ago decided to take this parenting thing one day at a time.

(but how do people with 2+ kids manage? I wish I knew)

I remember back in the day before Ben was talking normally, people’d always tell me “Once they start talking, they’ll talk back” and I remember thinking that that was the stupidest thing to tell someone whose child is verbally delayed. No shit, he’d talk back, but that sure beats the hell outta biweekly speech therapy.

Suddenly, I have blissfully begun to imagine a world in which LITTLE PEOPLE WERE QUIET in a way I’d never have imagined. I used to threaten Ben by telling him I’d sell him to the gypsies, of which he heard “chippies” and began to ASK to go to the chippies, because of course, that is junk food and junk food + Ben = heaven on earth. So I had to rethink what I was threatening him with.

Now I cannot seem to get the kid to shut his trap for more than 28 seconds at a time, because Lord knows his head might explode if he couldn’t narrate whatever the hell he was doing at a particular time. Half the time, it’s hilarious, but the other half drives me nuts because although I can completely ignore whatever is coming out of Dave’s mouth at any given time “blah, blah, blah, shut the cabinets after you’re done, Becky, blah, blah, blah,” I seem to be utterly unable to ignore Ben.

Not that he lets me ignore him for just a moment: “Mom, this juice is sour, grape juice is sour, Juicy Juice is 100% juice, grape juice is sour, yummy so yummy in my tummy, grape juice is sour AND yummy in my tummy tummy tummy, but I can’t drink it on the carpet because you know what will happen? MOM, do you know what will happen? MOOOOOOOOOOOOOM DO YOU KNOW WHAT WILL HAPPEN IF I DRINK THE JUICE ON THE CARPET? MOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMM!?!?!”

Until I finally have to answer him. And if I, by chance, am able to ignore him, he will continue monologuing (giving Dave a run for his monologing money) until I respond at increasingly louder intervals and my entire head of hair has turned completely grey.

But that isn’t what is driving me crazy lately, suprisingly. What’s driving me mad is that he will interject into any other conversation I may be having with someone else and try to join in. Whether or not he knows what he is talking about. This morning, I got a lecture on the amount of hashbrowns he was about to get from the drive thru which he didn’t understand yet because he hadn’t seen what I was talking about, which sounds less annoying on virtual paper than it was in real life. Let’s try again, so you can fully grasp what I am talking about:

Pretend you are having an intelligent conversation with a coworker about, say, particle physics (assuming, of course, that both of you know something about this), something of which I know absolutely nothing, and I walk up to you and start to tell you that the proper answer to what you are discussing is “obviously hot dog buns.” And when you inform me that I am wrong, and maybe I don’t know enough to be having this conversation with you, I begin to draw diagrams of why hot dog buns IS right and YOU are wrong.

Because six year olds know it all, even if they don’t.

So I’m going to revise my threat, I am going to see if the gypsies need a slightly chubby nurse to join them LIKE RIGHT NOW.

Seriously now, how many blogs can one person have? Okay, so I have 2, but I update pretty regularly now.

Then I found this, and realized that if this is not you, there’s a frightening sub-culture out there that I’d never known.

I don’t know which is a scarier thought.