I have so much to talk about and so little that I can. For strictly selfish and therapeutic reasons I'd love to write a pages-long diatribe. An essay of epic proportions. A manifesto for the ages.

Instead, for being-polite-and-not-burning-any-bridges reasons I'll just say this.

Never underestimate peoples' ability to stab you in the back. And then, while you're on the ground writhing in pain, twist the knife.

Donna invented a new dirty word while we lay in bed Sunday morning basking in the glorious silence of children on vacation. WITH NO PANTS ON.

Mess kit.

So that she can never deny it, I posted the definition on Urban Dictionary.

You know how it would be really cool to have a time machine? Like, you could totally go back before you had kids and hang around the house in your underwear and drink beer or, you know, go to the demolition derby or a bar on a Sunday. Back before your mom lived in your basement. Back before your wife stopped wearing panties in exchange for full-time cotton long-johns.

Guess what? Someone invented that machine and this past weekend, Donna and I went back in time. It was like a magic spell had been cast on as I watched my mom's car disappear around the corner with with the kids crammed into the back seat like lobster in a cage. One of those magic spells that lasts one whole week.

Before the garage door even closed behind them I had my pants off. I NEVER get to spend time without my pants on. What with the house full of girls and my mom. I'm a boxers man and sometimes there's, you know, gapping. But this week, it just doesn't matter. So... in this house, this week, no pants. It's a rule, in fact.

I need a favor. Can you, real quick, go read every post on this site and tell me which ones I need to delete?

Earlier today, I was checking out my server logs and noticed a couple of referrals from Google searches for "ur mom's a nice piece of lettuce". Interesting. Then I noticed the IP address of the visitor. I mean, I recognized the IP address.

It's my home IP address. I knew Donna wasn't at home. A quick glance at my IM buddy list confirmed what I already knew. My oldest daughter, Megan, was online. The Google search was hers.

Did you know that some people still fill out paperwork on, get this, paper?

Today, after finally getting a real, live person on the telephone at my insurance company, I was told they would fax me some forms to fill out and that I could mail them back for my claim to be processed. Umm. Fax? Mail? To give you information I already gave you? For a claim I already filed? More than a week ago?

Seriously?