Ah, the pleasures of the global blogiverse. I'm at a conference today, between workshops, trapped in the exhibitors' hall. Booth after booth of outwardly perky people who are dying on the inside, because at some point in their lives they made a tragic vocational decision that they would give anything--a crucial body part, for example--to undo. This goes especially for the many many many banks that market credit cards (and the seductive Buy Now, Pay Later lifestyle) to teenagers. They know a fertile market when they see one, and they also know their ticket to hell has already been punched. So now they're living out the string, trying to seem as though their lives have any meaning, and hoping you'll please subscribe to their FREE e-newsletters, so that you'll agree to infest your inbox in exchange for the fleeting FREE chance to win a FREE iPod shuffle.
After about an hour of 1) not making eye contact and 2) talking into my dead cell phone, I found a bank of live ThinkPads (one of which might also be FREE if Dame Fortune smiles upon me). The circumstances for posting (motive and opportunity!) are great, but this is also the first post I've ever written standing up. I can't say I recommend it.
But never mind that. I honestly didn't intend this to be a rant about Labyrinths of Despair. I'm actually in a pretty good mood, because of last night's sushi dinner. We were celebrating a lot of stuff: For me, the end of a particularly onerous work week; for Robert, the beginning of Spring Training and another summer of Yankee Fixation. But the biggest news is that little TwoBert, who has been peeing in the toilet regularly for the last week or so, spent yesterday entirely in underpants. He has finally bought in to the concept that walking around with a soggy sack of effluent around your privates is a bad thing. So he put on the little training undies first thing in the morning, played in them, napped in them, and wore them to the restaurant without incident. And lo, the choir of angels sangeth Hallelujah.
There is a little extra spring in his step, which sometimes sends his waistband a little south of the border. But now, instead of a protective layer snugged to his waist with Velcro, the undies slump with the pants to expose his little coin slot. Never before have I derived such joy from a butt crack, let me tell you, and I intend to savor this feeling for as long as possible, until his inevitable first accident with No. 2 sets forth a Maelstrom of Awful.
So huzzah for that! And now I have to sit down, because I can't feel my legs.