The lengthy excerpt from Margaret Atwood's "Cat's Eye" is not even the weirdest part of all this.

I do not have time right now to go into this, because I have to go practice my bass and then go get my kids from school, but the September 1989 issue of Seventeen is making me feel as though I have not ever had an original thought in my ENTIRE LIFE, as if everything I have ever thought, or felt, or worn, or held in esteem, came from this ancient scroll which I now hold in my hands. TIME IS A FLAT CIRCLE.

The 25th Hour, starring Ned and Maude Flanders

MY BOOKS ARE OUT OF BOOK JAIL!!!

I had a happy day a couple of months ago, organizing them. I don't alphabetize, I don't have a real system, but I know the kind of things I want next to each other. Here are a couple of pics of some of the subsections: 

THE APOCALYPSE/DYSTOPIAN/GENERALLY FUCKED-UP SECTION

I mean, Jesus -- global thermonuclear war, 9/11, serial killers, religious fanatics, fucking Tiger Eyes ...

THE NEW YORK SECTION

There's other NY stuff in the Biography and Food/Cooking sections. This ain't all, y'all. 

THE SOMEBODY WENT TO SCHOOLY-SCHOOL, DIDN'T THEY? SECTION

These are on a wayback shelf, I promise. Only an insufferable twat would put this stuff where it would be easily accessible. 

A SHELF OF SOME OF THE GLEEMONEX HOUSEHOLD FAVORITES

Just realized it's missing both To Kill a Mockingbird and Pride and Prejudice;  those are on my bedside table. Must get extras for public shelf, here. 

Cause darling, I'm a nightmare dressed like a daydream

So I am feeling very very weird right now, because it's my first full day alone since the three weeks of pre-delivery maternity leave I took in October/November 2011 -- Danger Toddler is now Danger Preschooler, three days a week. 

I keep checking my rear-view mirror as I drive, having mini-panic attacks to see the carseat empty -- but then, I'm listening to Stern, which I haven't been able to do since he was a pre-verbal baby, so that's cool. I went to get a mammogram this morning after the gym because I am officially An Old (and lol, two hours later, I just realized I still have the stickers on -- they put these stickers around your nipple and any moles, of which I have one, to distinguish them on X-ray from stuff that oughtn't to be there), and only really "got" to do the mammo because I could go to the doc alone. I have not watched a single Paw Patrol, Olivia, or Blaze and the Monster Machines episode today; instead, I have dealt with arranging a trip for my in-laws, sorted out various "estate" stuff with my siblings, made plans for a wedding we're going to in July, done some work on a pediatric cancer fundraiser, eaten a real lunch, and now am writing (without worrying that every time I move my chair an inch, the scraping sound on the tile floor will wake the kid from his nap and Productive Tyme is over). And but I am oddly bereft, verklempt even, and missing his sweet little ol' voice -- nobody's asked me for "gummy beaws" all day today, or told me that the 18-inch-tall plastic dinosaur is his "banana shooter" and is about to shoot bananas at me, so "Wook out, Mommy, or you'll get banana on you!"

So, back to eating more of those cream-cheese-filled cupcakes I made with Kid Gleemonex the other day. And also to more writing. The time has come. 

I mean, at least Blaze and the Monster Machines teaches about trajectory, and acceleration, and magnets and shit. GOD.

Could you have imagined that there is, in fact, something worse -- far worse -- than Paw Patrol? Even on Nick Jr. -- I'm not talking about those shouty, cunty, thoroughgoingly awful tweener shows on Disney et. al., which will absolutely not be allowed to play on any computer or televising device in my house now or ever, mark my words --  just good ol' inoffensive-if-occasionally-stupid Nick Jr.

And the answer, if you were imagining whether or not there was something worse than Paw Patrol, is: Yes.

You know what it is? It's Little Charmers. These fucking little student witches with their christing "Charm House" and sparkle magic wands and way-too-adult-poppy theme song and constant refrain of "Sparkle up, charmers!" and fake curse words like "Oh, toadstools!" and so on, which you let your first-grader watch because A) you are trying to let her Be Herself so you don't want to imply that girlieness or bestie westie BFFs are bad things even though you yourself get the mini-pukes just from thinking about the type of girly girl who invariably coos "Awwwwwwwwwwww!" in that singsongy widdle voicey-woicey when meeting a kitten, baby, or other Certified Canonical Cute Thing, and B) surely -- SURELY -- she will tire of it soon. Right? Right. Yes. Certainly. She will. She -- she will. Tire of it. PROMISE ME, JESUS!