{{DJ and less crazy/drugged family of the kid}}

And, ION: real talk that happened today.

Dear Friend: Oh, and I also duplicated 50% of my DNA. Well, less than 50%, because of the mitochondria. And it has a pulse!
Me (bearing in mind this guy is very into science, and for all I know, might work on cloning himself, so quite shocked): WHY?
DF, mumbling: moral debt to the society...?
Me: Uh. Whatever. But... how? And where? Which lab let you... And how do you...
(DF looks confuse, trying to answer delicately the "how" and "where" questions)
Me: Oh wait! Mitochondria, duh! Dude, congratulations!

Moral of the story: we live in an age where cloning oneself is not so much sci-fi anymore. When you're coming out pregnant, mind the details.

Oh, DJ, that sounds awful. And oh, God, your poor friend.

They had apparently agreed on what was to be said, but once she got up there, she threw away the page and deemed it "inappropriate" and then kept calling him by the name his druggie friends used "Tweak."

He must have been livid. What a seriously shitty thing to do.

DJ, how about organizing an alternative memorial to the kid, and not inviting the pod people? Is there a talk about it?

DJ, that sounds absolutely horrific. I can't even begin to imagine what a fucktastic spectacle that was.

However, the Urban Decay set is verra pretty.

OMG. I'm toying with the idea of taking sewing or woodworking classes (need new creative pasttime) and I could take classes from Roy Freaking Underhill. [link]

Now, I'm not sure that I'm up for the full-on 1937 experience (no tape measures? for realz?) but it's tempting.

Oh, Daisy, what a travesty.

Me: Oh wait! Mitochondria, duh! Dude, congratulations!

Moral of the story: we live in an age where cloning oneself is not so much sci-fi anymore. When you're coming out pregnant, mind the details.

Heeeeee. That's pretty great.

DJ, that sounds horrible. I am so sorry.

He must have been livid. What a seriously shitty thing to do.

He actually handled it all pretty well. Reminded himself to breathe and rolled his eyes at her. At the end he wrapped it up well and thanked everyone for being there for the family.

When he, the godparents, and the principal spoke were the only things that weren't horrifying. And when he spoke was the only time Bob and I cried. (Technically I only cried because I saw Bob cry, and he NEVER cries-he really never attends funerals either).

No alternative memorial. Those of us who are friends of the father and his wife joined them at the bar where my husband works and had a mini memorial. Which reminds me, I need to find the picture of the kid, sweetfaced with green hair at one of the crawfish boils for my friend.

Good holy god, Daisy. I just don't even know how to respond to that.