So yesterday the fine folks at davebarry.com decided to link to the Company Cookbook album. Five bazillion people came stampeding over and I'm sitting around with my nursing bra down yakking about purple nipples.
(Also, let's not overlook the obvious fact that yes, both James Lileks and Candyboots did disgusting recipe commentary first, and also better, and I am the first to throw up my hands and admit this. So you can all stop pointing that out now.)
(Also also, the cookbook's back cover had a wee copyright symbol on it, so yikes, I really hope I don't get sued now that it's gone all Internet phenomenon. If it makes Mystery Company feel better, I do plan to make that one banana bread recipe.)
(Also also also, DAVE BARRY! HI! You are funny and when I was in Miami last summer I kept repeatedly pointing out the Tribune's offices to Jason until he made me stop because I am a huge dork.)
So I'm trying to think of something witty and brilliant to talk about. Something BESIDES the state of my boobs and my son's butt and my purse dog's busted leg and how many times I have been peed on by my son (and the purse dog) in the last 10 days or so.
But I can't, and I'm also typing this with one hand because, yeah, my entire life revolves around sustaining a 10 pound linebacker infant using only the mighty power of my boobs.
(I did take the baby to Georgetown yesterday for his first-ever visit to Sephora. He excitedly crapped his pants in the fragrance section, and I spent a shocking amount of money on a lotion for stretch marks, only to get home and read the fine print on the side of the box: Not for use by pregnant or nursing mothers.)