Will said to me the other day, every time I think I've told every story I have to tell, it turns out there's just one more.
You're so lucky you were brought up poor, I told him. You have way more blog fodder than the rest of us who had enough to eat.*
On our live chat last Saturday, I suggested that Will and I should have a baby. Not because we want one, mind you, but because we were raised by American sitcoms, and that's what you do when you run out of material. You could also waterski over a shark wearing a leather jacket. (Uh, you wearing the jacket. Not the shark.) But alas, Will can't drive a speedboat 'cause he hates water. And wind. And sharks unless they're Jabber-Jaw.
However, there is that whole thing with raising a baby. I heard that you can't just crate them and leave them with a greenie. This is probably why I have never been allowed to babysit SlackNiece (and Godchild) j. Although I think it has more to do with the fact that wee little j. knows that her sippy cup holds "baby juice" while her тетушка's (Russian for auntie - we pronounce it more like tcheu-chi. Think tchotchke) cup holds, well, тетушка juice.
Think Auntie Mame with no money and a hip flask.
So then I had the brilliant idea that people should pay us not to have a baby. Do you realize that there are no, I repeat, no charities in the Los Angeles area to assist a woman who is an unemployed television writers to not have a child? A grave oversight, indeed.
WHO WILL THINK OF THE SLACKMISTRESS?!
Hrm. Maybe I should start a religion instead.
*I didn't actually say this.**
**Okay, I did, but I was joking.***