Yeah, I'd read that I've been playing around with The Story Starter and just having too good a time with its algorithm.

My favorite so far:

The tiny old man did bypass surgery in the supermarket to quiet the angry mob.

I think we should have a short-story contest based on that opening line. Rock.

if you don't want to know, don't ask I'm already kind of Debbie Downer at a baby shower. I mean, I do okay. I try. It's not as if the crocheted burp cloths come out and I go Martin Sheen, but I don't think I am able to muster the same level of enthusiasm for witty-bitty socks as are some women. I'm more like, "Dude, my present to you is that if you go mental I'll help out with the baby." I usually bring groceries.

And we just had so much staining during Baldo's infancy that I find pretty textiles totally unimpressive. Oilcloth! Everything must be oilcloth.

And then there's The Question. You know. The other chicks are sort of getting high on the 0-3 month onesies, and somebody says, "Marrit, doesn't this make you want to have another kid?"

And I'm all, "Fuck, no. Thank god for the vasectomy."

And the record scratches and everyone gasps. Um, okay. Maybe I didn't have to say "fuck," which in my case is just something I say a lot; I ain't mad atcha. But you did just ask about my reproductive intentions, right? Kind of a personal question.

Some people get upset at that point. "You can't have just one!" a neighbor once insisted. His wife glared at him. Actually, it is possible. And even if you have more than one child, life is such that you may have only one left someday. I know this. There's more than one way for a kid to become an only child.

And you know, you ask a question like that you should be prepared for any answer. "Actually, I'm having gender-reassignment surgery." "We're adopting children from Malawi." Asking a question like that opens up the conversation way more than most askers realize. I am actually okay with that. But are you?

a pebble on the pile I am not reading about, listening to, or otherwise giving my regard to the Virginia Tech school shootings.

Nothing would change if I did. Except for my own state of mind. I don't have any answers ("More gun control!" "Less gun control!"), only feelings.

Honestly, if there is an answer to anything, it's that we should pay less attention to the mass media and more attention to our own backyards. Don't waste your time figuring out what made Cho Seung-Hui tick. Don't read his manifesto unless you're a profiler or an investigator. Look at the people around you instead.

All I know is this: There are a lot of pissed-off young men who need some kind of major fucking intervention to keep them from becoming psychotic. To me this is not about politics or race or gender or the proper way to lock down a school or anything. This is about crazy people. This is about mental illness. If you want to prevent the violence, start there. Especially if you're a man. Let's construct a model of masculinity that doesn't involve shooting people because you're angry at them. And those that are hopeless should be on enough Seroquel or Thorazine to keep them from acting.

pre-/school It's always nice to see that I'm not the only mother stumbling into drop-off at 9:20, still wearing pajamas. Probably not the only mother with a hangover, either.

I did manage to pack a lunch nutritious enough to disgust the other children. "Why are you always feeding him things I don't like to eat?" one asked. Like cauliflower. We all did agree that carrots and broccoli are okay.

Meanwhile, the noisy battery-powered play vacuum from last weekend's garage sale is stuck in the on position, the battery compartment fortified by the World's Tiniest Screw, which I cannot seem to turn with any screwdriver in the garage. Fuck it.

best/buds "I wanted to tweak his succulent, felted pink nose and sleep on him as if he were a hammock."

Kurt Vonnegut, no! Shart.

I want to say more but I have cramps and need coffee. Kurt Vonnegut would understand.

something to believe in I don't think that 8 is ever going to be the number of the day.

vive le muppet In case you like them too, I wrote about the Muppets for Family.com.

dogs, dogs, dogs Operation Dogs Are Cool took a hit today when B. and I visited the animal shelter for our usual playing-with-dogs time. We got a leash and took out Rigby, a red cattle dog. Baldo remembered Rigby from last time, and it was all, "Rigby! Rigby! Rigby!" At first.

I'm not used to dogs taller than knee-high--ours were Bassetts--but I got the leash on him and everything was good until pow! he steamrolled me and was off. The cell block went wild. Jumping, whining, barking, "Attica! Attica! Attica!" My son crumpled to the ground where he stood with his hands clamped over his ears, and I went Tommy Lee Jones on the fugitive Rigby. Caught him too, and returned him to his kennel past rows of sad-eyed mutts diffidently greeting the warden's return.

"We will get another cat," Baldo pronounced. "Rigby is not the dog for us."

So we went in to see the cats--not to adopt one, but really just to play in the cat rooms with whomever wasn't sleeping.

Over the P.A.: Loose dog in the adoption area. Loose dog in the adoption area.

"Not me this time! I have an alibi," I said.

When we walked out to go there was in fact a loose dog, some kind of wirehaired yipper streaking across the lawn toward us.

"I don't like this, I don't like this," Baldo murmured, crawling up onto a bench.

I wrangled the little yipper and handed her over.

I think for a while we'll just stick with Hondo, our imaginary dog.

butts, butts, butts For a brief time my nickname from Baldo was "Stupid Stupidbutt."

Brief, I tell you.

So today he attempted to give me a less pejorative designation. I asked him a question. His response: "Okay, Joyful Butt."

Joyful Butt?

"I wanted to call you something nice instead."

Okay. I mean, aside from the fact that it sounds like Engrish porn. It is a nice idea, I guess.

ETA: If you're not the child who lives in my house and you call me "Joyful Butt," I will seriously hit you with my giant old-lady purse, which usually has rocks from the playground in it.