It’s not, as you’ve probably guessed, a baby shark.
For one thing, I’m not an idiot and I know that baby sharks grow into adult sharks[1] who deserve way more space than I’m prepared to provide.[2]
But leaving Offspring guessing about what I was plotting here while he nobly battles red tape and ignorance in support of… whatever it is we’re doing over there. I’ve honestly forgotten.
So have they.
Friends, I need your help.
It’s too late for a cover-up—at this point the best we can hope for is to be really proactive about our excuses, explanations, and justifications.
Let me back up.
Apologies in advance, but I’m turning in a sub-par performance.
Shut up.
Hauntings season is (basically) over, which means Husband and I are spending quality time having weird-ass conversations for your benefit.
I mean, we’d have them whether I had a blog or not, obviously… but you do benefit from reading about them so here’s a thing that happened yesterday—enjoy!
You may have noticed you’re only getting one this week.
That’s because it’s Halloween, dammit! Why are you reading blogs when there’s spooky outside?
Even the SUN is getting spooki.
I debated telling you about this. It’s not my usual sort of thing at all.
But then I remembered that time I got the disastrous Botox injections that melted my face and made my migraines worse; specifically, I thought about all the people who commented on that post, or contacted me about it, and all the people whose heartbreaking search terms lead them to it every week. I thought about that and I thought, “I wish someone had told me five years ago what I know now!”
The decision sort of made itself after that.
I’ll say this for engineers: given fifteen years of marriage and five years of blogging, they start to notice patterns.
