the no-neck monster didn't get me

I've just been doing not much very blog-worthy. Sitting around eating cheetos and writing in my pajamas is fun, but it's not terribly interesting.

Got a birthday and an anniversary coming up this week, which would be fine except that everyone in my life is having fucking babies. My sister-in-law, who's already got two daughters, is now pregnant with twins. "Sally" is pregnant, and she's only been married like five months. Good lord. You'd think it was a goddamned biological imperative. I've been fighting off the ennui by reading a lot of apocalyptic comic books and listing all the men in the world who need to have their heads smashed in, a la Pan's Labyrinth. (So far, my husband is still on the fast-diminishing list of men who get to keep their faces.)

Oh, and so I'm going to be here this Sunday at 2pm. The Philadelphia Book Festival has arranged what I think is going to be a pretty seriously nifty panel, moderated by Jennifer Weiner, with Elizabeth Gilbert, a wonderful writer who pretty much singled-handedly gave me my career (well, Amanda Hesser helped too - and hey, look! I just used the word "career" to apply to myself. Chilling.) and Darcey Steinke, whose memoir "Easter Everywhere" I have embarrassingly not read, but will be getting to today. Anyway, it should be fun. I hear it might even have stopped raining. Though I'll believe that when I see it.