Does it help if I say that I've eaten dry cereal out of the box while sitting at the computer for the last two nights?

Yes, yes it does. Really, I only mock your Actual Good Home-Made Grownup Food out of jealousy.

Thanks, Amy. I am so excited.

"cooking" that requires more than bopiling 1 thing, or microwaving is, for the most part, way more work that I'm willing to do if it's just me.

V. exciting, Debet! This week notwithstanding, grad school is FUN.

Thanks, Jesse! Now to get myself a loan and a apartment. Gah!

Congrats, Debet!

Me, I don't mind cooking complex stuff, when I have the energy and the kitchen's already clean. Oh, and I'm hungry. Those stars don't align often.

Watched this week's Jack & Bobby. I didn't cry as much as sumi, but they got me right at the end, with the look on Jack's face when Bobby sprinted past him. Combine a knee injury with sibling dynamics and untimely death, and you own my sappy little ass.

The J&B family isn't as warm and fuzzy and pleasing as the Numb3rs family, but I really enjoy watching its dysfunction. Also, Jack rocks pretty hard, the wee thing.

My mother tried to give me my baby book the other day. I told her I didn't have room at the moment, and would take it when she died.

My baby book contains evidence of my mother's crazy in the form of my dried-out cord stump. She was shocked, shocked I tell you, that we didn't save Lily's. The things rot off. They smell like something that's rotted off. And she wonders why we didn't keep it?

My family is crazy. We also admit it.

This is true. I've met them. They've admitted the crazy.

Also, I'm certain that Paul will be a Dad JUST LIKE JILLI'S. Which is a scary thought, but funny.

Thanks, ita!

Plei, saving anything more...organic than hair is not at all appealing to me.

When I was 19, my mom sold the house we'd lived in since I was 3. My sister and I were emptying out the basement closet in preparation for the garage sale, and we found the baby books for my brother and the two of us. Well, actually, we found the baby books for my siblings (both older than me). Mom had finished my brother's up until he was 3 years old, my sister's was completed for the first 3 months, and me? Well, we found a plastic bag with my baby things--I didn't even get a book. I still give Mom grief for that to this day.

We also found Mom's shoes from her wedding to Dad. Since they got divorced 16 years later, we both declined her offer to give them to us. Bad mojo, and all.

Debetesse! Another Buffista corrupting the youth of tomorrow! Or, uh, the adults of tomorrow. The youth of today. The today yoots. Eeexcellent.

Apropos, too, as I've just finished watching a documentary about the first years of five new teachers in Los Angeles.

My baby book contains evidence of my mother's crazy in the form of my dried-out cord stump.

I dropped my brother's in the large tank humidifier we had. I was 3.5 y.o. That's about the strongest memory I have of his babyhood. It looked like a funky dehydrated hershey's kiss.

I have a sort of babybook. Partly my mom's effort, partly grandmas'. I especially like the two typewritten journal pages, which detail my dad's freak out over gross diapers and the source of my nickname ("Piglet," because to my dad, I sounded just like the piglets on my uncle's farm when I nursed. My dad liked the piglets a lot, btw.) My brother? Well, there is a book. And there are some pictures and his hospital tag. Stuffed in the front cover. She did have a three and a half year old that the grandmas got to wrangle this time...