I’ve been feeling a little random lately, what with all the talk about shoes and shopping and my ass. I apologize for the incredible shallowness here at Friday Playdate, but here’s the deal: there are a lot of things going on these days, at my house and in my head, but a substantial portion of them are not bloggable, for various reasons. And the things that are fair game are stressing me out so much that the mere thought of writing about them makes me want to poke myself in the eye with a fork. And post some pictures! Ha ha ha, wouldn’t that be fun! No, not really.

I wander through my day thinking about all kinds of things I could write about (Henry’s field trip, for instance, or the birthday party we went to on Friday, or the man at the grocery this morning who got in his car, lit up a cigarette and put his oxygen tube on). But then when I sit here to actually write, the only things I can make coherent sentences and paragraphs about are shoes and my ass. So there you have it.

While I feel bad about blathering on about Stuff I Want to Buy (But Won’t, Ultimately, Because of the Mommy Guilt), writing–anything at all–takes my mind off of all the other stuff. And doesn’t cost as much as, oh, a new pair of shoes, or a visit with a therapist. And you all are such troopers, playing my crazy Leave A Comment game and resisting the urge to mock me for lusting after YET ANOTHER pair of ballet flats in the exact same post where I point out that they are not flattering on me. Because really, who cares? But you all do, and I thank you.

And now, in a good-faith effort to entertain you, I leave you with this thought: what kind of pooper scooper do you think it takes to clean up after Clifford?

I’m just wondering.