Don't Do That Tuesday 11/27/12

Happy Tuesday gentle readers! For it is Tuesday and y'all know what Tuesday means: time to revel in Meg's boneheaded stupidity!

Strangely enough, I don't have much stupidity to offer this week (no comments from the peanut gallery, DYLAN), but I do have two guest Don't Do That posters...and by guest posters I mean I'm about to make fun of various members of my family in a semi-public arena and they have nothing to do with posting this. Luckily I'm super-charming and adorable and thus will suffer no retaliation from this blog (...right...guys?). Also, one of the people I'm about to call out can't talk, so it's open season on him as far as I'm concerned.

Don't do that #1: Hey, y'all, if you have a cathedral ceiling and you are just determined to paint the wall that runs up to it, here's a little story from my mother and sister just to give you an idea of what not to do. So, my mom decided she wanted to paint this really tall wall in their living room and my sister Gracie agreed to help her. Naturally, having some common sense, they went to get the ladder from the yard to set up so they could climb up it and paint said wall. And then, naturally, they abandoned the ladder because it was dirty and icky and, like, some dirt fell in Grace's eye when they were trying to set it up, and there were gross spiders living on it that my mom's pretty sure bit her on the face (okay, I get the point there, spiders are the devil's evil godfathers).

Instead of, you know, taking the ladder back outside and hosing it off, my mom, who is about to have surgery on disks in her neck by the way, decided she would climb on top of the computer desk and then hoist herself up to this ledge that's...oh...12 feet off the hard-as-Hillary-Clinton tile floor or so and paint the wall all squished up on the ledge like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. When I asked her why on earth she would do something so risky, she said, "Well, I'm going to the neurosurgeon on Monday anyway. Might as well give him something else to work with."

They said it went fine though at one point the computer desk was bowing underneath Mom and she had to make a quick leap up to the ledge (I call shoddy workmanship on the part of the desk-maker as my mom weighs about as much as a flea). Nevertheless, I grant points to my mom and sister for successfully painting the wall without killing themselves but I say to you, readers, don't do that!

Don't do that #2: This one comes to you from the creative and occasionally troublesomely offbeat mind of the Boog. Boog has been "exploring his environment" a lot lately. That's a fancy therapy term for ruining and destroying the crap out of all his crap. He's become particularly interested in the area around his window and has torn his mini-blinds to shreds in his exuberance over OMG-I'm-inside-but-I-can-see-the-outside-I-can-see-the-outside-guys-why-does-nobody-else-realize-how-cool-this-is???!!! Sunday, while the rest of us were video chatting with the grandparents, Ry decided that it might be super-fun to take the register off of the a/c vent in his room which is right underneath his awesome window. It has a lot of straight lines, so I understand that part (he loves to look at and touch straight lines). What I don't understand is why he then felt the need to jump down the airhole like a stupid cat (see the Righting the Redneckery series for that reference). It's possible that he slipped and fell in, I don't know. What I do know is that we heard a brief yell of alert (Boog's not one for big displays of, well, anything), and we went in to investigate and found Boog stuck up to his waist in the a/c vent hole with a very sad expression on his face (A/C vent hole, you looked so fun. Why did you betray me?!).

I will forever kick myself that I didn't get a picture before we rescued him. I was going to put him down there (gently) for a reenactment but a. he cut up his leg falling down there the first time and b. putting your kid in a potentially dangerous situation for entertainment purposes is kinda terrible parenting, so Winnie the Pooh is standing in for Ry on this one:

Oh bother.

Don't do that #3: Okay, I did do one pretty boneheaded thing this week. So, I went on this anti-inflammatory diet this week (not the boneheaded thing, although...no sugar and only a couple of glasses of red wine a week...) because I read that it was good for controlling fibromyalgia symptoms and I discovered that I was eating almost no whole grains at all. I wasn't eating any refined grains, either, but I was getting maybe one serving of whole grains in at dinner and that was it for grains...other than the occasional post-wine sneaked bowl of Pippa's cereal. Um, so anyway, you're supposed to eat a buncha whole grains on this diet so I decided to try my hand at slow-cooker steel-cut oats...again...I've never had much luck with them, but surely, this time would be different because they're anti-inflammatory this time!

Um yeah. No.

First of all, if you do plan on making slow-cooker steel-cut oats, dear readers, do not have a "flash of brilliance" and decide to mix a large portion of egg white protein powder into the oats before cooking to up the protein content...unless of course you enjoy eating a breakfast the texture of a broken custard...

Yeah, it tastes pretty much how it looks...

Secondly, and maybe y'all will have better luck, but every g-d time I make this g-d recipe, I spray more pan spray in the cooker and add more water and every g-d time I end up with this:

Look! I made blueberry-flavored cement!

Thus, I say to my readers (but mostly to myself), "Stop trying to make slow-cooker steel-cut oats happen! It ain't happenin', cap'n!"

And there you have it! Paint a tall-ass wall without a ladder? Don't do that! Jump down an air conditioning vent hole for fun? Don't do that (no matter what Pooh bear tells you, it's not fun)! Slow-cooker steel-cut oats with egg white protein powder? Don't do that, either (trust the lady eating a week's worth of eggy wallpaper paste breakfasts)!

Tune in next week to see what kind of half-brained shenanigans I get myself into this week. Happy Tuesday!

Maudlin Ramblings...With Pictures!

So...Thanksgiving...that happened. AmIright? While some of you may have had angst-ridden, bourbon-soaked full-family displays of dysfunction, the Dittrich-Reed clan had a lovely, chill time hosting two very old (as in we've known them a long time, they're only slightly closer to middle-aged than us, hehe) friends Nolan and Cheryl and Cheryl's sister and her boyfriend, all of whom were very understanding about the turkey being a bit late and the questionable joys of being forced to act excited while an 18 month old hauls out her every possession for your entertainment and a small autistic boy rubs spitty hands in your hair.

We intended to spend Friday, Saturday and Sunday eating leftovers and working on our redneck bathroom remodel, but...on Friday morning the Boog had a seizure and started to throw up (he does this with seizures) and then just when we thought he was feeling better, he had another one and the g-d Diastat tube (which are $250 a pop before insurance, by the way) broke and didn't get the medicine into him that it was supposed to but the seizure was blessedly unusually short, and then we were down to one tube left so I called the neurologist's office which was, of course, closed for the "holiday" (since when is the day after a holiday considered a holiday?) and had a very aggressive message about not troubling the on-call doctor with prescription refill authorization requests which I, of course, ignored. The doctor had no problem with calling in Diastat refills for Boog as he's not a sadist who would deny life-saving medication to a 4 year old, but our stupid redneck-run pharmacy didn't have any. We decided to wait it out since we still had one tube left and he often only seizes twice. And thus began Seizure Watch 2012.

Dylan watched Ry until midnight while I attempted to sleep but actually did nothing but read and listen for sounds of seizure (which, um, you can't hear through the walls). Boog got up from his post-seizure lethargy around midnight and looked so happy and energetic so we went to put a movie on for him and happy and energetic turned into stilted and jerky and oh-Lord-seizing-again. I held him while he seized and vomited and turned blue. It is exactly as scary as it sounds. Thank God the Diastat worked this time and brought him out of it. And then we had no tubes left and I proceeded to freak-the-freak-out while Dylan did the sensible thing - called around until he found a 24 hour Walgreen's that actually had the medicine in stock and then got our pharmacy to transfer the prescription and drove out there to pick it up. I stayed home and laid next to my sweet, sleeping boy and watched him breathe. When Dylan got home, he took over and I got a few hours of sleep while that lovely, wonderful man got none and stayed up to make sure our son was okay. See? Told you it would get maudlin.

Um, so anyway, Ry is better now, we'll see the neurologist next week for med dosage adjustment and now, pictures!

Thanksgiving Boog: gotta love a good sweater vest!

There is no room for shirts at Thanksgiving. Also, that is Nolan looking all kinds of stern about my parenting methods in the corner.

TURKEY LEG!!!!

Daddy and Boog respecting each other's personal space bubbles (no seriously, do NOT try to cuddle that kid while he sleeps unless you enjoy elbows in your throat) after a long night of seizure-watch

All worn out and still beautiful

Well, it was not the Thanksgiving weekend we planned, but at least no one ended up in the ER this year!

Don't Do That Tuesday

I've decided that my blog needs some regular weekly features. Why? I have a list of really well thought-out reasons...that I don't remember because I came up with them after dipping into the bourbon I bought to make Derby pie this weekend...but the conviction stuck even if the reasons didn't, so today I present to you the first installment of "Don't Do That Tuesday". "Don't Do That Tuesday" will be a weekly feature in which I regale you lovely readers with cautionary tales from my own life warning y'all against displaying the kind of stupidity that haunts me daily. I suspect I'll have to get a bit choosy as a week's worth of Meg mistakes could probably take up 8 or 9 blog posts' worth of space, but since I just came up with this idea, here are the mistakes I've made in the past 18 hours or so:

Don't do that #1: If you haven't been eating dairy for several months because your son has a severe allergy, do not, under any circumstances send your husband out for MagPies mini cupcakes and consume 5 of them in a PMS-fueled mania right before bed without taking a Lactaid. The resulting belly pain will keep you up all night with visions of tombstones reading, "Here lies Meg. Died when cupcakes stabbed her in the intestines". The consequences of all that sweet, buttery goodness may also wake your bedmate with...ahem...emanations so foul that he sits straight up in bed looking as if he's about to cry and shouts, "Dear God, why?!"

Note: Do not take this as a warning against purchasing and eating MagPies cupcakes. In fact, everyone within a 50 mile radius of Knoxville should go buy MagPies cupcakes (or pies or cakes or cookies) RIGHTNOW, because dear sweet and fluffy Lord they are the best things I've ever put in my mouth (and I'm not on the payroll anymore, so ya know I'm telling the truth), but if you're lactose intolerant, for God's sake, take a Lactaid first, dummy.

Don't do that #2: Do not attempt to hide packages of baby wipes from your thieving children by stacking them next to the rat cage.

Maybe they needed to towel off while running on the exercise wheel?

Rats are the hoardiest of hoarders. They will tear open a package of wipes and pull them one by one into the cage. Why? I have a couple of guesses:

1. Years of hearing phrases like, "you dirty rat" or "ew, gross, a rat" have given the entire species a wicked collective case of OCD and one wipe just can't get a rat clean enough. Neither can two. Or three. Or four. Or...well, you get the picture.

2. Remy and Romney (our rats) stole the wipes to weave into a rope they could lower down to escape from their cage into the magical outside world where a rat named Remy could run the best restaurant in Paris by sitting on some doofus' head and yanking his hair like puppet strings (still not clear how that one works) and a rat named Romney could run for president (sorry, it was just laying there, I had to take it).

Zat's eet, madame. Just bend zat head a leetle closer. I'm going to be zee best chef in all of Paree!!

Well, there you have it. Eat massive quantities of cupcakes without a Lactaid? Don't do that. Give baby wipes to rats? Don't do that, either. You're welcome.

Soup Burns and Basketball-Head

I was going to blog a super-serious/heartwarming autism blog today, but then I suffered a grievous soup injury to my hand and it just doesn't have it in it for that kind of typing this evening (fall is a dangerous time, yo, all those bubbling soups and pumpkin lattes and mulled wines and whatnot). I may never recover (or, you know, I'll be mostly fine in about a day...).

Soup kills!

Anyway...so my goal for this week is for the Boog to stay out of the ER. For some reason, Thanksgiving week/weekend is the week his system always decides to go all catawumpus and he gets some sort of bizarre illness. My guess is he takes the Luke Danes from Gilmore Girls view of the holiday and is simply trying to remind us what happened to the Native Americans after that fabled feast:

Luke Danes: Shouldn't we give thanks first?
Jess Mariano: Thanks for what?
Luke Danes: Well, that we're not Native Americans who got their land stolen in exchange for smallpox infested blankets.
Lorelai: Amen.

Last year, he decided to have a completely random and unexpected allergic reaction to penicillin the second or third time he'd been on it and spend the weekend impersonating a basketball.

When you look at my giant, bloated head, think of Squanto.

The previous year was less impressive, but fairly miserable as well as he had some sort of bronchitis/sinus infection combo.

So, this year, as you sit down to your turkey and pie, think a good thought for the Boog and his wonky immune system. Or, you know, just give thanks that your head isn't the size and shape of a basketball. The Boog will appreciate either.

The Incident

I feel compelled to file an incident report with you, gentle readers, both as a confession and a cautionary tale. You folks and your constant support and devotion keep me honest and so...here it is:

This morning I raked the lawn.

I know, I know. I warned you I had quite the confession to make. Actually, I only raked half the lawn, because...well, here's how it happened:

Approximately 10:00 a.m., Meg takes Pippa and S out to the backyard to play.

Meg: Gee, there sure are a lot of leaves laying about. And Dylan is doing that whole OMFG-my-dissertation-must-drink-pots-and-pots-of-coffee-and-stay-up-til-3-writing-til-my-eyes-bleed thing. I bet he'd appreciate it if I raked the back lawn. You guys won't mind, will you?

Pippa and S: We're oblivious to what you just said and will keep happily poking the dog with sticks.

Meg: Awesome. Okay, here's the rake. Let's do this!

Pippa: Hold up. What is going on here?

Meg: I'm just raking the lawn, sweetie. I'm still right here.

Pippa: Um, Mom, it's okay when you ignore me to read George R.R. Martin or text Daddy. George R.R. Martin and Daddy are awesome. Ol' stinky leaves are not.

Meg: I'm not ignoring you, sweetie. Hey, let's play a game! Why don't you show me how you jump?

Pippa: Piss on your jumping, Mom. I think I'd like you to pick me up right now.

S: Oooh, the Not-Mama's back is turned! I wonder if the dog would like a stick enema?

Meg: Pippa sweetie, I can't pick you up right now, Mommy's raking. How about you bring me some cool rocks? S, don't poke the doggy's butt with sticks. That's a mean touch.

Pippa: Rocks? What am I, a geologist? Screw that. Pick me up NOW.

S: Oooh, I wonder if there are any rusty nails behind the shed here. Tetanus is my favorite deadly disease.

Meg: Pippa, honey, Mommy can't pick you up right now. I'm raking the leaves. S, don't go back there, sweetie, not safe! I know! Why don't you guys bring me some leaves for my pile? That would be fun and helpful!

Pippa: Oh, so it's child labor now, huh? I'm only 18 months old for God's sake! Next she'll have me down in the salt mines! Hear that neighbors?!

S: Oooh, I wonder if it would be a good idea to stick this handful of wet leaves into the outdoor electrical socket? What am I saying? Of course it's a good idea!

Meg: S, no touch! No touch that! Not safe! Pippa, sweetie, please calm down. It's okay, Mommy's just raking, I'll be done soon. Why don't you go play with S?

Pippa: That's right, folks: my mother, the oppressor. I hear she was responsible for that Benghazi thing, too. She's pretty much the WORST MOTHER EVER!

S: Rocks taste good in my mouth.

Meg: Pippa, Mommy loves you. Just let me rake leaves for 10 more minutes and we'll go in and have lunch. Are you hungry? S, we don't eat rocks. How about you guys play on the slide? Wouldn't you like to go down the slide?

Pippa: I'm starving! It's been 2 whole hours since I ate! My mom is Mussolini! She's Stalin! She's Hitler! Someone come save me!!!

S: Jumping off the garden fence sounds like the most fun ever!

Meg: ALL RIGHT! YOU WIN! LET'S GO INSIDE!

Pippa and S: Geez, what are you yelling about? Such a drama queen. Sheesh.

Anyone know where I can find this guy? I think I'd like to have a date with him tonight.:

Hello, handsome.

OhcrapI'msupposedtoblogtoday

Uh...so I made this pact with myself awhile back that I would blog at least twice a week. Four times is the goal, but I rarely hit that. So, I just realized it's Sunday evening at 6:28 p.m. and I've only blogged once this week. Sadly, though, I lack a witty topic to rail on about for paragraphs and paragraphs. Thus, you get a Megcentric highlight reel. Below you will find a series of facts, opinions and musings that are currently floating through the scary, scary ether that is my brain. You're welcome.

I saw a guy in the Co-op parking lot this week who looked just like Leonard from "The Big Bang Theory". This coupled with zombie Steve Jobs in the Trader Joe's parking lot can only mean one thing: celebrities of various states of aliveness are stalking me but the only way they can reach me is through special inter-dimensional portals in grocery store parking lots. Clearly.

Onions are so badass. I mean, think about it: they have the power to make you cry even as you're chopping them up to eat them. What else can do that? Note: if you have an answer to that question, you should probably keep it to yourself...or tell a nice, friendly policeman...

I wonder if other animals can be service animals. We're working on getting Ry a service dog and he likes dogs, but he likes certain other animals better - like goats for example. I wonder if goats can be trained as service animals? My freshman year roommate, Tiffany, took a class on goats (what? UCD's a big ag school) and for their final they had to write a paper on any topic related to goats. Since Tiffany just took the class for a laugh and not because she had a burning desire to learn about goat husbandry, she researched weird facts about goats to write her paper on. She found that some man had quit his job and invested all his money into the idea of training goats as guard dogs. The specifics are escaping me now, but I think the goats wore bells around their necks and were supposed to shake their heads vigorously at the first sign of trouble? Needless to say, the venture did not take off. The guy lost all his money and his wife left him. Moral of the story? Dogs make the best guard dogs. But...I'm still not sure about service animals...maybe I should sink some money into this idea...

Oh my gosh, guys, the joys there are to be found when one performs a Google image search for "service goat"!

I hate not being able to buy wine on Sunday. Tonight I made a lovely Moroccan beef stew and a glass of red wine would really go nicely with it. But guess what? Jerkface past-Megan drank all the wine last night and now present-Megan can't have any. The future-Megan of tomorrow could purchase some, but the moment will be over by then. I wish present-Megan could go back in time and kick past-Megan's ass and steal that bottle of Apothic Red. Alas, I have yet to find my own inter-dimensional portal...perhaps I should search in the Kroger parking lot...

La Mancha List: The Conclusion

I always like it when the last part of something is called "The Conclusion". It has such a serious air about it.

So today, gentle readers, I bring you the conclusion of the list of stuff that-oh-dear-sweet-fluffy-Lord-I-have-to-actually-DO-now!

76. Learn to play the guitar: Thus fulfilling my teenaged dream of singing and strumming in a coffeeshop somewhere. Also, it seems like a good way to pass the time when the power is out. That's what TV has told me anyway, and we all know TV never lies.

77. Attend a fancy event in a fancy dress custom-made for me: Because even self-actualized, independent liberal gals who scoff at gender stereotypes secretly never completely get over the princess thing.

78. Meet Joss Whedon: There probably shouldn't be anything on the list after this, because once I accomplish this one, my head will explode. Maybe Joss can resurrect me. He likes to do that.

79. Read one of my husband's papers and actually understand it: The first step in this process is managing to stay awake past the first sentence...

80. Have a white Christmas: We came really close a couple of years ago. It snowed most of the day but it was a very wet, slushy snow and it melted as soon as it hit the ground. That doesn't count in my book. Also, bonus points (to the Universe, I suppose), if Bing Crosby comes back from the dead to sing "White Christmas" as it begins to snow.

81. Cook my way through a whole cookbook: You know, the whole Julie & Julia thing. Only NOT The Art of French Cooking because 1. it's been done and 2. there's some gross, gross shit in there, y'all.

82. Get Ry a service dog: We're actually working on this one right now and expect to have it accomplished by next year. You have no idea how vital this could be for him, though. This dog could quite literally save Rylan's life by alerting us before he has a seizure and rolling him onto his side. Ry often vomits during or right after seizures and he doesn't have the ability to roll himself over when he's seizing or in the post-seizure lethargy. Scary stuff.

83. Design my own house: Although there's a decent chance that this could end up like "Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House" (a hilarious Cary Grant movie, in case you haven't seen it), I think it would be so cool to be solely responsible for all the design features of my house that I hate.

84. Live in the country: When I was growing up, we had friends who lived in the country and their house was the most fun place ever. I think it would be really fun for my kids and...yeah...help me live out my latent Laura Ingalls Wilder fantasy.

85. LARP: Yes, it's the very height of nerdiness, and yes I couldn't do it with anyone I know or I'd never want to see them again. Still...I think it might be fun to try...I'm dying to hit someone with a foam sword.

86. Write and record a song: Gotta accomplish 76 first...

87. Start or be involved in an autism charity: There's so much to work for when it comes to autism. The thing that lays most heavily on my heart, though, is the lack of awareness. There are so many autistic kids out there going untreated because their parents are either unaware of the symptoms or don't care. I'm not sure we can help much with the don't care part, but we can educate the public on the symptoms of autism so parents who don't know much about it can recognize it in their children early and get them treatment.

88. Have a giant library with one of those sliding ladder thingys: I would probably then proceed to slide about on it and sing songs from "Beauty and the Beast"...

89. Take Rylan to the opera: For some reason, the boy is delighted by the opera when it's on PBS. He's going to need to learn to control himself a bit more in public before this is feasible, but I think his little brain would explode (um, in a good way) if he got to see opera live.

90. Drive on the freeway: Sigh...this is one that's only on here because I know it's something I should do. I'm perfectly happy sticking to surface streets, but it does become a bit inconvenient to travel from city to city that way (I'm cool with highways, by the way). I just hate the freeway. It's so fast and there are so many jackasses on it and my spatial intelligence and driving ability are terrible. I'm happier avoiding it, in general, but I will drive on it if I absolutely have to. I just haven't absolutely had to very often.

91. Take the kids ice skating: When I was a kid, my grandparents would take my sisters and me to an ice rink in Berkeley and it was THE MOST FUN EVER! My kiddos need to grow up a bit and gain some gross motor skills first, but I think they'd like it.

92. Cook a dish from each country in the world: Not on the same night, obviously.

93. Keep bees: Dylan can take care of them.

94. Have a secret passage in my house: If I get to actually design my own house, it's going to be lousy with secret passages. You're going to get up and try to go to the kitchen for breakfast and end up in the basement.

95. Solve a mystery: I'm leaving this one vague so that I can claim to have solved a mystery when I, say, find my keys in the morning.

96. Visit a psychic: Yeah, I think it's all crap, but I just think it would be interesting to see what s/he would say.

97. Learn to make ceramics: ...or however you properly word that sentence...

98. Make everything we eat for a month: I've certainly gone a week or two this way, but we usually eat take-out or deli stuff once a week, because Mama gets tired and busy. Someday, maybe, I'll be less tired and busy (HA!).

99. Actually eat all my veggies: I eat more fruits and vegetables than the average American (and no, Ronald Reagan, ketchup doesn't count), but I don't usually hit the optimal 9 servings a day (5ish is more typical). Right now, I honestly can't afford to buy that much produce, but eventually that shouldn't be a problem.

100. Go parasailing: Why? Because it just looks so cool.

Oky doky, that's it! The 100 things I'm supposed to do before I kick it! Phew...I know I theoretically have about 50 years to complete this list, but...that's seeming like not a lot of years for all this stuff right now, haha.

I guess I'll start tomorrow...

In My Head, In My He-e-e-ad...

What the heck is it with zombies? The world has gone zombie-mad lately. They're on TV, they're in movies, they're in video games. Y'all can't get enough of zombies, apparently. As for me, I find them abhorrent, disgusting, vomit-inducing, and, most importantly, not entertaining. I just don't get the appeal of shuffling hordes of mindless reanimated corpses. Yuck. And yawn.

Perhaps that's why they're after me.

Now, Meg, you might say, aren't you being a bit paranoid? Just last week you thought vampires were coming to eat your babies and the week before you were seeing armored knights around your bed about to attack you. Listen up, gentle reader, you...have a point...but no, this time I'm serious. The United Necromantic Dastardly and Evil Association of the Dead (The U.N.D.E.A.D. for short) have launched a subtle media campaign across several platforms to officially gross and freak me the eff out. Here's my evidence:

1. Game of Thrones. Scratching your head? Here's the deal: the books are just lousy with zombies. George R.R. calls them "wights", but, come on, you ain't fooling nobody dude, they're cold, stupid, rotting zombies. How is this relevant? Clearly the U.N.D.E.A.D. bribed George R.R. Martin to write books so addictive in nature, so irresistible to a 30ish decently-well-educated liberal female nerd such as myself that aforementioned well-educated nerd would overlook the fact that there are decaying limbs dropping all over them pages. Well played, zombies, well played.

2. The Sims 3. Again, let me explain: in the most recent expansion pack, Supernatural, zombies come out of the ground during a full moon to eat your Sims' plants and attempt to attack them. After the full moon is over, they're supposed to go away. My game, however, encountered a bug which makes zombies spawn constantly. There are dripping, green undead folks popping out of the ground around my Sims' house 24/7. They have to run to their cars in the morning to avoid being attacked by the shambling horde of grossness that follows them wherever they go. Again, brilliant move by the U.N.D.E.A.D. who knew that the depth of my Sims addiction was such that I'd play even in the midst of a zombiepocalypse.

3. My friends. No, my friends haven't turned into zombies...yet...but Dylan and I started playing an RPG with our buddies Nolan and Cheryl over Google hangout and in person when we can. Last night was our first game night and guess who the villains were? Yep, zombies. Nolan called them "raveners", but I suspect that's only because he's been paid off by the U.N.D.E.A.D. Et tu, Nolan?

4. Their ringleader. That's right, I've discovered who runs the U.N.D.E.A.D. Friday afternoon I was in the parking lot of Trader Joe's (a good place to track me down, again they display their brilliance, probably all those brains they've been eating) and a BMW drove up. In the passenger seat was Steve Jobs. I swear to all that's (un)holy it was him. He smiled at me, gave me elevator eyes and a wink and then the driver drove on. Now, obviously, Steve Jobs was a pretty powerful and rich dude and now he's dead. Thus, there can be only one conclusion: The reanimated corpse of Steve Jobs is the leader of the U.N.D.E.A.D. and he traveled to Tennessee to hit on me in the Trader Joe's parking lot. It seems pretty obvious, right?

See? I told you they were after me. I can only conclude that my brains are some sort of tasty zombie delicacy. The brightness of early intelligence mixed with the intoxicating mushiness common to the stay-at-home mom spiced with just a dash of mild insanity for heat = zombie ambrosia. I guess I can't blame them. I mean, I am tasty. But, Steve Jobs, you've already gotten me to pay an obscene amount of money for a laptop. You are not getting my brains.

Privileged white female is my favorite pizza topping

P.S. Do you guys know how hard it is to find a picture of Steve Jobs eating? Had to resort to a clear Photoshop!

P.P.S. Y'all know I'm kidding with this stuff...right?