Here is something that’s kind of hard about being home all day: I run out of stuff to talk about. I don’t mean I have zero opinions to contribute about the world at large or that I’ve completely lost the ability to hold a conversation with another human being, I mean I rarely leave the house so my daily talking points are pretty much limited to things the kids did or crap I read on the Internet.

I have no one to blame for this tragically reduced set of life experiences but myself, really. I could at the very least work from a coffeehouse during the afternoons when Dylan’s in kindergarten so I’m not quite such a recluse. But I don’t, and so these are the sorts of things I find myself rattling on about when JB gets home from work:

• “The mail is coming earlier in the day than it used to! It’s weird, because it used to come so late, you remember how it would be like after 5 when the truck would pull up? Well now it’s more like 10 AM. Crazy, right?”

• “The cat sleeps like all day long in the winter. Gosh, she can sleep.”

• “Did you see that Jean Claude Van Damme Volvo ad? How about that fucked-up giant squid? Breaking Bad bloopers? That awful knockout game craziness? The thing where you open a can without a can opener?”

• “I was publishing this one article and for some reason the image upload was hanging and it took SO long, UGH.”

• “Can you even believe we’re out of milk again? I swear I just bought milk.”

I’m not actually convinced I was a more entertaining conversationalist in the past (“Oh my god my commute sucked a bag of ELEPHANT TESTICLES today, like even more so than yesterday or Monday!”), but lately, despite my overall contentment, I feel like I’ve become a very, very, very, very boring person.

You know, I’ve talked about making peace with the various less-than-perfect aspects of our house, but for some reason this weekend was the first time I really noticed this:


Or this:


Or these:



And now I can’t stop twitching.

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