random sunday

I almost never know the date. I've tried to think up a murder mystery plot in which the killer gets away with it because she writes the wrong date on a form. It's pretty much the worst murder mystery ever. But, you know, I'm still working on it.

What in the late summer harvest fuck is a lemon cucumber?!? If I'm against GMOs does that mean I can't have one? Why haven't I ever heard of this? And more importantly, why haven't I ever had one with gin and lots of ice?!?!

Has anyone ever in the history of the world gone to any doctor's appointment without having to fill something out on a clipboard? With one of those pens with a plastic daisy scotch-taped to it?

We keep asking Chicken to stop whining. We say "use your words." We say, "you don't have to whine. Just tell me what you want." But what if all he wants is to whine?

I want all novels to come with a warning label if, in that novel, a child is harmed or killed. Seriously. That shit ruins my day.

Sometimes it really hurts my feelings if someone doesn't like my kids. Most of the time, eh, fuck em if they can't take a joke (and by joke I mean sippy-cup of chocolate milk poured on the crotch.) But sometimes, especially when Chicken is charming and bright and cooperative, when he's saying please and thank you and flashing those dimples, and generally being objectively, empirically, genetically-coded-human-instinct-level awesome, and someone STILL doesn't give a shit? I get really sad. "Don't you see the gift he's given you?" I want to ask. "He gave you the bright eyes and everything. He said thank you, and he said your name with soft, round, overcooked toddler consonants. He shone for you. Could you please just give a shit?"

I am going to drink a glass of $6 Cabernet. That's $6 a bottle. Sorry, $6 for a 2-liter bottle. Don't tell any of the sommeliers I know. Actually, you know what, invite them over. I've got 1.9 liters of Cleveland's best artisanal red, and those guys know how to party.

Ryan cannot wait to go back to work. More on that later. But suffice it to say if something ever happened to me, Ryan would remarry. Immediately. Anyone. Really just the first available human. Pulse optional. Any random wino on the corner, as quickly as possible, in order to avoid having to do my job.


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