No more sick babies but I'm still a dork

My child no longer has a 102 degree fever. Tylenol and a nap and he was back to flinging cordless phones in the toilet and tackling his sister. Tylenol is so awesome. I can’t believe I was unaware of it’s magical healing properties before I had kids. Had I known I would have registered for that stuff when I was pregnant.

Despite all of the sick baby tending, I managed to finish my last pre-Harry Potter book. It was the new Stephanie Plum mystery Lean Mean Thirteen by Janet Evanovich. I liked it. My mother would like everyone to know it is perhaps her favorite of the series. I would like everyone to know Stephanie Plum has one and only one more book in which to start treating Joe Morelli better or I’m gone. My mother does not seem bothered by the fact that Stephanie's always hanging out with a guy that’s not her boyfriend. Up to and including spending the night at his apartment this time. In his bed. Wearing his clothes. If that were my girlfriend, I’d tell her to hit the bricks. I’m not sure why Joe doesn’t. He’s supposedly hot and smart and nice.

My mother says I need to write Janet Evanovich a letter to warn her I’m going to swear off reading anymore of her books if Stephanie doesn’t shape up. My mother’s answer to most of life’s problems is to write someone a letter about it. Just last week she wrote the post office about her stamp concerns. As a child, I remember my mother never once questioning my liberal use of stamps to write letters to any number of random people including President Clinton, Oprah and numerous authors. Alex Trebek once mispronounced Ghandi and Dante in the same week and my friends and I sent him a wacky letter pointing out his mistakes and generally explaining why he shouldn’t host Jeopardy anymore. At the time it was kind of funny. Now it’s sort of odd. And embarrassing. And odd.

And, for the record, I think Alex Trebek kinda has an attitude. He sent me back a giant Jeopardy postcard with a cute standard little note typed on the back. But there was a handwritten note scribbled next to it that said “his” dictionary lists two acceptable pronunciations for Dante. I like to think Alex himself wrote that. I like to think he was somewhere in a Burbank dressing room poring over a dictionary to see who was right. Of course, I also like to think Frisco Jones is my friend.

And, seriously, I'm not even trying to pretend I'm not insane.