The Professor brought me over a birthday cake and I showed her the garden and then we sat in the hammocks and talked and watched the dog.  After she left, the Butcher came home.  Then the door opened again and I thought the Butcher had just gone outside, but no!

It was the recalcitrant brother.

Here to surprise me for my birthday.

We have been teasing each other all night.  Him about me getting old.  When am I going to have kids?  And me about him never bothering to get divorced.  America, in two years, he will have been married ten years.  We’ve promised that, if he’s still married, we will take him out for the strangest anniversary dinner we can think of to commemorate the strangest marriage we have personally witnessed.

(For those of you following along at home, my brother married my sister-in-law when she told him she was pregnant with the littlest nephew.  That lasted, oh, I don’t know, a year?  And then she left him and went home to North Carolina and took up with her boyfriend.  But they never have bothered to get divorced.  I kind of doubt they ever will.)

What Do Marie Cassat and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Have in Common With Me?

We all, weirdly, have two bellybuttons.


Just kidding.

When I was younger, I always used to tell myself, if I get to be 35 and I’m still not married, I’m just going to go ahead and have a kid.

Apparently my younger self thought I would be independently wealthy long before now, or something.


I should have tried for a quicky wedding yesterday.