Remember me?

Q: Where the heck have you been for the past two weeks? You turned 36, and then fell off the face of the earth. What gives?

A: Let me explain:

  • The Universe did not respect my request to be spared the vomit bug that had previously felled my wife and son. I puked only once, but with enough ferocity and volume that I was certain my feet were going to come out of my mouth.
  • The layer of dust blanketing everything in my office had become so deep that I could barely open the door, and the dumping station that once was known as my desk had become cluttered to the point that it was no longer functional. Much cleaning was required, a job that spanned several days.
  • The state of financial panic in the Scratches household recently hit a heretofore unimaginable peak, to the extent that I was on the verge of scrawling “For Sale” on a piece of cardboard, taping said cardboard to a stick and planting it on my front lawn. By some miracle, however, the past month has seen a number of web-programming jobs come my way. I love our time together, Internet, but you ain’t payin’ the bills, and baby needs a new pair of shoes, so the paying gigs have occupied the time that I would otherwise have spent cozying up to you.
  • My son is two-and-a-half years old. My daughter is six months old. Neither believes in sleeping past 4 or 5 a.m., and, when awake, both require continuous adult supervision. (Which reminds me: Look forward to an upcoming entry about my yet-to-be-scheduled vasectomy.)

The remaining smidgen of time during which I could have conceivably squeezed you in instead went to this:

Yes, Jack Bauer and the gang at CTU have, much to my chagrin, sucked me in yet again. Last season was awful beyond all comprehension, but this season, the producers have employed writers who seem marginally aware of what the word “plot” means. I’m sure it will all come unraveled well before the season ends, but by then, I’ll have invested too much time to bail out. (They really should change the name from “24” to, say, “8.” Cut out two-thirds of the slop they normally stick in there, and you’ve got yourself a show. Gimme less of the “I’m so-and-so’s annoying/whiny/amnesia-stricken/secretly villainous wife/brother/ex-husband/gardener” plotlines, and more of Kiefer Sutherland bending people’s appendages in directions they weren’t designed to go.)

Hey, it’s my one guilty pleasure. Sue me.

So there you have it. I haven’t been avoiding you; I’ve just been insanely busy. Rest assured that I still love you.

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