Syllabus #148

Late again!  Which reminds me of a joke that my mom reminded me of this past weekend (which is why I'm late, I was in South Carolina petting a very adorable puppy and also spending time with my parents, who are adorable in their own way, but I spent less time petting them, because that would be an insane thing to do).  It was a terrible joke that one of my guy friends told in the car when my mom was driving us somewhere in high school.  It was hilarious at the time for shock value, but in retrospect it honestly doesn't even make that much sense:

What's a thing that, when it's late, makes a teenage girl's mother scream, her father faint, and her mailman shoot himself?

Answer:  Her period.  

Like, who is out there banging their mailman?  I mean, yea, if they're a walking mail carrier, they have foine looking calves but this joke just doesn't resonate.  Is there some kind of Mr. McFeely fetish subculture out there?  If you, as a teenage girl, thirsted after the experience of getting Mr. MeFelt-up by the person (regardless of gender) who delivered your mail, please elaborate in the comments.

Anyway, please enjoy this baby dog, and also a sunset because it was pretty:

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My first email address was snoopymh1@aol.com, and I'm still chasing the "You've Got Mail!" dragon.  There's no other high quite like it.  I'm Team Email, for sure, but also Team Inbox Zero.  If you have triple digits of unread messages in your inbox, you're either way more Zen than I'll ever be, or the kind of careless person who accidentally leaves your baby in a hot car.  I said what I said.  

I don't even like mac and cheese, but Dolly makes it sound downright delightful.  

It seems to me that lying about your age on social platforms is more of a problem for creepers who want to lie about being younger to prey on minors, not people (like me) who still want some modicum of privacy and don't like giving out my birthdate on the internet because I don't want hollow birthday greetings from randos who would not have known my birthday if an algorithm hadn't reminded them.  If I want to identify as a 137 year old, let me be, you rapscallions.

Hold on, I gotta get on the horn and call up High School Me, who never once bothered to toast the frozen-ass regular Eggo waffle I ate on the way to the bus stop almost every morning for years.  This would have been a revelation.

Analog Reading:

Almost finished with John Darnielle's Devil House.  I took it with me on a visit to the eye surgeon the other day, where I was seeing about my cataract (see what I did there?  and also there?).  The only review I had been able to find online for this guy was from an elderly man who was pleased that the doctor was willing to pray with him before undergoing cataract surgery.  I didn't have high hopes, and maybe also that was not the book I should have had sitting in my lap when the doctor walked in.  Oops.  Turns out the doctor is super nice and had a much better explanation for what is going on in my busted ass eyeball and how it can be fixed than the first doctor I saw, so, you know, #blessed.