no, sir, I was NOT smoking the pipe

Occasionally, Sir and I like to pop open a bottle of snazzy Ballatore Asti. I call it Asti Spumanti, in a fake Italian accent. We like the bubblies. It helps with our monogamous pants-dropping later. One night, Sir brought home a bottle to enjoy with some equally snazzy movies (probably something super like "Black Sheep"), and he, doing the honors for I am mildly dumb, prepared to pour us some delicious adult beverages. Sitting in my living room, I was close enough for him to ask me from the kitchen, "Want a mushroom?" Without thinking, I responded with enthusiasm, "Sure!" and immediately popped what he threw at me in my mouth.

Ladies and gentlemen, I tell you now so that someday when I am running for President it can't be brought up against me because you knew all along: we didn't even HAVE mushrooms in our house.

The worst of it is, the next time we had bubblies, he asked and I responded, again. This time I was smart enough to stop myself in time from putting the cork in my mouth. But only JUST.

and after she did that, I totally put on my green socks and started doing the hokey-pokey

I find inspiration in others' writings and photography; this morning I found a blog in which the author freely admitted to suffering from various anxiety problems. Many blogs tend to be authored by anxiety-ridden adults; popularity of a blog seems to be directly proportionate to the severity of issues at hand. I like to think we readers find a bit of ourselves in these people, but that's sort of like empathizing with the scary sand people in The Hills Have Eyes just because some of them have eyeballs. Life must be ok because even though that woman with a bulging forehead is holding my severed arm, I can clearly see her standing on two feet--just like me. Rest assured, if you have anxiety problems and run a successful blog, I'm not reading your stories because you're a freak show. It's just nice to know someone has it worse.

One thing that stood out to me was that this lady admitted to being afraid to answer her phone. If you were a fly on my wall, what you would have seen was this: dirty, unbathed, crazy-haired woman standing on top of recliner shouting, OH MY GOD YES! Because apparently I'm not the only one who doesn't answer her phone. Sorry, mom. I really was dodging your calls. You too, prospective employers.

To all of you who suffer from anxiety and run blogs, thank you. You make me feel so not alone.

And since I'd like to become famous just like you: I, too, suffer from anxiety.

you say tomayto, I say tomahto

Me: Your writing is poo.
Sir: My writing quality is poo.

Semantics; at least we agreed something stunk.