Don't bury me . . .

. . . 'cause I'm not dead yet.  I swear.

This whole "job" thing is really taking it out of me.  It's all so . . . bourgeois, don't  you think?  Between that and all my kids -- I've lost count of them -- I haven't had even the chance to look at my blog in ten days, much less write one of those witty, insightful posts that so delight my readership.  I was vaguely afraid that I'd find squatters here when I checked back in this morning.

So, coming in June, I'm a re-invigorated blogger!  (Unless I'm not.)

Dear Landlord.

My children have been freeloading for too long now. So, a few weeks ago, I gathered them around me and laid it all out. "If you want to stay under my roof, " I said, "you need to start paying the rent."

I must say, my six-year-old son embraced the idea and has worked hard to earn his keep. One day he came home on the bus from wherever it is that he works (I haven't had a chance to ask) and he had a live chicken in his arms. "I named her Goldie," he told me. "She's nice. She doesn't peck me. Can I keep her?"

"Sure, you can keep her," I answered. "Until dinner."

Self-Editing.

So few posts lately, and I've just deleted two of them. The first was meant to be a knock on the lameness of this blog, but ended up reading as if I was suggesting that my wife looks at porn sites, which she doesn't. Not well thought-through, I guess.