Q: So. How you doin’?

A: Good. Except I’m trying to stuff all these old entries into categories. I have, uh, 327 to go? I am so screwed over here. Why did I not do this before? Every time I read other people’s blogs I’d think, oooh, looky! They have these neat little category thingys. How do you do that? Then I’d la-di-da away from the computer. Why?

Q: Cuz you’re a dingbat?

A: Is that a question?

Q: No, not really. How was dinner?

A: Good, good. We had dinner with friends. I mean, grown-up friends. Actually, it was terrible.

Q: The food?

A: No, the food was great. We’ve been going to a place called Pause, this pub over on North Interstate Ave. Burgers, great pastas, starters, soups, yummy desserts. Decent service, nice setting. We met there. Our friends just moved — they have no kitchen. They’re remodeling. So they have to eat out every meal now — it’s like they’re pretending we live in Manhattan or something.

Q: So it was the company?

A: NO, OH MY GOD. WE HAD DINNER WITH OTHER GROWN-UPS. They’re nice. Smart. Know how to put, you know, sentences together. And stuff.

Q: It was the kids, wasn’t it?

A: THEY’RE MONSTERS. Not theirs — ours. Their kids are great. Ours won’t eat. They crawl under the table. They crawl on the table. They throw things. They spill things. They run around and annoy other diners. I’ve turned into one of those horrible parents who’s all, “honey, sit down honey, please honey,” and looks like she’s just donated her BRAIN or something. Wacky Boy grabbed my friend’s beer and tried to take a big gulp of it. My friend is all, “That’s not yours, guy,” and Wacky Boy is all, “I want beer.” LIKE WE GIVE HIM BEER WHENEVER HE ASKS FOR IT. We don’t.

Q: What’s his favorite toy?

A: (silence)

Q: Spill it. What is it?

A: His father’s Homer Simpson beer opener.

Q: The talking one?

A: Yes, it’s the talking one. It says, “Ummmmmm, beer, YES, OH YES! WOO-HOOOOO!” when you use it.

Q: You are the worst mother I’ve ever met. Interview OVER.