When You Viral

Wow. Okay. So.

The When You Marry book thing (album? commentary? no, I think "thing" was just about right.) took quite a tour around Teh Interweb last week -- first on Sociological Images, which Kelly tells me means that I am Officially Important to Sociology and Stuff, then to Jezebel (thanks for the link back to the original site OH WAIT NEVER MIND), and then a bunch of other blogs, culminating over the weekend with a front-page mention on Fark, the web's premiere depository of stupid, pointless, too-much-time-on-our-hands bullshit.

This mostly means that I am 1) kicking myself for the massive monetizing FAIL of dumping the scans into Typepad's ad-free photo album format, and 2) absolutely drowning in emails from people who want to tell me their theories about Brenda's boyfriend's name.

As was established pretty quickly in the comments on the first batch of scans, his name is likely Quin or Zion, as I clearly haven't written in proper cursive handwriting in full-on decades now. But I am not sure what I'm expected to do with this information -- find them on Facebook? Classmates.com? Travel to Edinboro, Pennsylvania and attempt to track down the D.C. Heath and Company publishing representative from the front inside flap and figure out what high school this book originated from? And then scan the attendance records to figure out if there was indeed a possibly interracial couple with a possible out-of-wedlock mixed-race baby who went on to live happily ever after In Spite Of Everything & Cultural Mores Of The Time & Also That Judge In Louisiana? Or at least whether they got an A in the class? I DON'T KNOW. But now I feel like I am letting the Internet down because I don't have a conclusion to the story. I should probably upload the last couple chapters, at least.

Anyway. Hello, 15 minutes of Internet fame! You are delicious, yet ultimately hollow, ranking a few notches below stealing chocolate Easter bunnies from my children. I have two of them, by the way, in case you're new to the blog. I don't think I mention them in the book scan commentary anywhere. Probably because there were no ads. I mean, Christ, what's the point then? You think I had kids to save my marriage, or something?

I spent the weekend visiting family, blissfully unaware that my site was threatening to buckle under the weight of all those extra eyeballs, celebrating the boys' birthdays with my parents (who are doing super-well, by the way, thank you to everyone who has asked) and siblings and nephews and approximately 4,504,092 SQUAWKY BEEPY BLINKY BOOPY BATTERY-OPERATED TOYS. 

Oh, and. Also. Listening to Ezra say his first words.

*pulls sweater neckhole over face, bites fabric from the inside, realizes too late that's it's fucking angora, desperately tries to remove coating of wool from tongue*

On Thursday, Jason managed to half-convince me that Ezra's wails of MAMAAAA, MAAMAAAAA! from his crib were actually deliberate, as opposed to just some horrible proof that the word "mama" just happened to originate from the horrible bleating sounds babies make when they cry. I remained skeptical, even after Ez threw in a finger-point. MAAAMAAAAAAAAAWAAAAHHHwhatever.

On Saturday, he said "outside." Multiple times, in front of multiple corroborating witnesses (but not nine different camera angles, because although we brought three cameras, we forgot at least one vital piece of each one, including batteries, memory cards, and chargers), while plastering himself against my parents' sliding glass door. OWS EYE! OWS EYE! Then he decided to lick the glass for awhile. HE IS CLEARLY A GENIUS.

He will also point to a mirror and identify himself as "Zah." 

MOMMYBLOGGER OUT. *drops mike*