And there are 19 more where that came from. So, if you're sitting there thinking, oh, great, more pictures of the kid, yawwwwwn, I say to you: Get off of my cloud! I used to have to pay big bucks to see this smile, and now the boy is just giving it away for free.
There are a lot of reasons. But what I love most about talking to myself is that I can't see my eyes glaze over when I say something that doesn't interest me. It's sort of refreshing. Because lately, I can count on five fingers the number of people who will ask me a question and then actually listen for more than one nanosecond while I answer.
My conversations usually go something like this:
How was your weekend?
It was good, we took Gu----
Of course, it takes experience to know that you are the sole participant in the conversation at this point, because, more often than not, the person who asked the question is still standing in the doorway to your office. To the amateur, this person's presence might indicate that he is listening, but in his mind, he is wondering what would happen if he Googled the words "puerto rican sandwich balls."
Trust me. He is not with you. You might as well just save your breath.
Or, you could have a little fun.
"How was your weekend?"
"It was good. We had dinner at Las Fiestas Friday night, and by Saturday morning, I was pretty much setting the world on fire. With my butt. Out of curiosity, have you ever farted while wearing a plastic disposable G-string? Whole different ball game, dude. It makes this sweet snapping sound. Really. Good times. My dog about busted a gut laughing. And he rarely even smiles."
"All right then, I'll catch up with you later."
"Cool, have a good day."
I seriously can't believe I've given birth to a picky eater. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, Gus just glares at me, lips clamped shut, whipping his head violently from side to side, ever the moving target.
When I was his age, I would rappel down the side of my highchair, lowering myself into the trashcan wearing a head lamp to search for scraps while my mother's back was turned.
I would use my lima beans to spell out "Where's My Dessert, Woman."
I assaulted a Girl Scout once.
But she was taunting me the second time.
What two-year-old carries exact change?
Anyway, no charges were pressed. But on second thought, perhaps it's best Gus didn't inherit my legacy.
Let's just say the pharmacist who refilled Gus's prescription tonight didn't exactly inspire confidence.
Because the label was written in sanskrit with the name of the drug nowhere in sight, I asked, "Is this Bactrim?"
He squinted at the label. "Should be," he said.
I handed him my insurance card. He looked at it ... then looked down at the label on Gus's prescription ... then looked at me ... then back at the card ... then down at the label ...
"The birthday on the bottle says 5/25/04," he told me.
"That's my son's birthday," I said. "I'm picking up a prescription for my son."
"Is he ... like ... a child?" the pharmacist asked.
"Yes," I said. "He's like a child. Except that he has a short furry tail.
Do you suppose that's a side effect of the medication?"
Amanda O'Brien is the author and sole proprietress of Blabbermouse, a blog she launched in February of 2005.