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Sometimes you think a conversation’s about to get seriously weird…

This evening, Wes and I were talking about one of his school friends, who had told Wes he couldn’t have a certain TV character as a favorite because she was a girl. Wes was pretty clear without my having to offer counsel that that was dumb and you could like anyone you want, but wanted an explanation as to why someone would say that. “He’s a 4-year-old misogynist” seemed harsh, so I stalled for time.

“Isn’t he friends with girls at your school?”

“Yeah! We play with girls every day! We pretend we’re monsters and chase the girls around. Then when we catch them we say [regretful voice] ‘Oh, I put your sister in the lover.’”

“You say WHAT?”

“I put your sister in the lover.”

“In the…”




[World's longest "uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh..."]

“Mommy! The stuff that comes out of volcanoes!”

“OH! That… actually makes sense.”

We never got back to the original question, but I think it’s best that I don’t attempt to speak with authority on any subject for at least 48 hours.

Goblin King, cont’d

Scott tried to link to this in the comments on the last section, but apparently you can’t put links in my comments, probably because of something I did wrong in a past life. But it’s really funny, so I’m linking it here instead.

I’ve seen this movie a couple times, but was so distracted by David Bowie, and also by all the David Bowie, that I never really noticed parts of it are not very good. And the last time I saw it was like a month ago. So kudos to you, David Bowie, for giving new meaning to carrying a movie.

A brand-new way of looking at the common cockroach.

There I was, making a meal for the boy and me, when I saw it. Well, you couldn’t miss it: this big ol’ cockroach was just standing in the middle of my kitchen counter waving hi.

I did my best job at balancing “OH MY GOD there is a ROACH in my kitchen AUUUUGHHH” with trying not to freak out about a bug in front of a 3-year-old.

3-year-old: “What is it doing here?”

Me, with perhaps just a little more anguish than I’d have preferred: “Well… I don’t KNOW. I don’t KNOW why it’s here.”

“I fink I know what he’s doing.”

“You do? What?”

“He’s twying to decide what to do about you.”

That’s a strangely terrifying concept, isn’t it?

Unfortunately for Mr. Bug, he has a much smaller brain than I do and I decided what to do about him first. I’m quite certain there are no more where he came from. Right?

We have to talk about something.

It’s that photograph to your left. See?

Yeah, that one.

I want you to know I would never actually wear that outfit.

I realize my credibility is undercut here by the fact that there is a picture of me wearing it right there – a picture which I myself put up on the Internet.

What happened was – well, first imagine you haven’t slept more than three hours a night for – how old is W. there? – say, 18 months. So your judgment is impaired. Then, let’s just say you had a baby or something, and your clothes didn’t fit, and the only pants retail could offer you that did fit were made by Gloria Vanderbilt, so you have to swallow an enormous amount of your fashion pride just to make the purchase; it’s no surprise that you accidentally swallow a little too much and buy all the colors, even beige, a color you are on the record as categorically opposing.

Then one morning, in a stupor, you throw on the beige pants and a pastelly top and go to the zoo, and your good friend, say her name is Jodi, takes a really cute picture of you and your kid, and pfft! Years of fabulousness down the drain.

(I sleep now, just for the record. I’m much more vigilant now.)

Displaying a surprising grasp of marketing…

The lyrics to the song that W. composed to avoid eating dinner tonight:

Zo-e wanna be Elmo
Zo-e gotta be Elmo
ELmo gotta beeeeeeeeeeee…. ELmo!

In the car today

I’m about to put on Beatles ’65 because the classical station is boring right now. Before I can quite get the CD in, the radio switches to another flavor of boring, which R. thinks he should maybe listen to for professional reasons.

A minute or two in, it’s clear that it’s neither very good nor bad in any particularly instructive way, so R. says, “If this gets unbearable, you can put on the Beatles.”

And I say, “That might be the best epitaph I have ever heard.”

Then I put on the Beatles.

Life in a Hotel, Chapter One

The people in the suite next to ours tonight were, hand to god, playing live drums in there tonight. Live drums. In a hotel room. And not even very well.

That may never stop being funny.