I haven't been posting much lately--busy at work, new foundling pit bull puppy, carpal-tunnel and some issues about task lighting in the kitchen have consumed my life, such as it is. But anyhoo.

You could have knocked me over with a rolled up carpet when we got the news of Clay's impending paternis nervosa kodakis, but I got over it. I told him one time, "you have such extraordinary gifts, you can't expect to lead an ordinary life: and I'm not sure if he was actually listening to me or signaling to Jerome, but this new development fits pretty well with what I think I know about Clay. Clay wants what he wants when he wants it. He's a pretty smart dude. And, I think he likes new projects. All of this culminates in the mystical, ancient primeval convergence of the 8s, which are all infinities when you turn them on their sides, and I'm not talking about the car this time. Maybe it was forced. Maybe it was tweaked. Maybe it was gimmicky. Maybe it was just freaky enough to have just happened. In any event, I think God's Official Stopwatch ("knockoff Swatch, probably") recorded it as so, and so it. Extraordinary. Nothing normal, nothing ordinary. I mean, wtf with that king-size pillow Jaymes brought home? That wasn't a pillow, that was an entire freaking sofa cushion (without the dog hair or lost teeth and fingernail clippings) or maybe it was one of them fan-see decorated king-size shams that's supposed to stay on the BACK OF THE BED, next to the headboard, with the other eleventy-six decorative pillows arranged in FRONT. It looked like a body bag for Spongebob. But I guess "SOMEBODY" named CLAY grabbed the honkin' yooge pillow on the way out, and then Faye was all "That was the wrong pillow honey, that's a DECORATIVE PILLOW" and Jaymes was all "I DON"T CARE JUST STOP DRIVING OVER THOSE EFFIN' TRAIN TRACKS!" and Clay was all "Oh, I'm sorry, I messed up the pillow order on the bed at home because a STOOPID SQUARE french sham was messing up my head--I don't recall buying ANY SQUARE PILLOWS" and then Jerome was all "I've had bbq chicken legs bigger than that little baby" and Clay was all "the only sauce going on Parker is some sweet sweet daddy loving on those little frog legs of his, which reminds me don't forget the pie plate and aluminum foil from granny, she said to bring it back because she's not president of Alcoa. And then Clay bends down to pull up his droopy stripey stocks and takes a moment to think of me, the bloggy chick with the go-go-boots and the heinous- smelling Christmas car.

I hope young Parker inherits his pop's pipes. Maybe he'll be real good at picking out songs for other people, like his mom. Maybe he'll be more like one of his uncles and be a brave soldier fighting for what he believes in. Maybe he'll be like his famous uncle and have almost as much money as Oprah. Maybe Clay will have the most wondrous Christmas of all this year, carefully selecting toddler-appropriate space shuttle weebles and let Parker play with the cardboard box or ribbon bow instead if he so desires. Clay if you buy Parker new non-Payless shoes, make sure you take the tissue out of the toe--those babies whine all the live-long day if you cram their feet into shoes half the size they should be because of paper packaging inadvertently left in the toe. Also remember that as soon as Parker's motor skills develop, he'll be able to stealthily shove an entire sleeve of a designer dress into his mouth while you are nonchalantly looking through the haute couture department at JCPenney. Take it from me, you do NOT want to have to purchase, under duress and a police escort, a slobbery-sleeved Mother of the Bride dress just because Parker decided the tag and buttons looked succulent. Gently extract the sleeve from the toothless little darling and trot briskly back to the car, while wearing bucket hats, sunglasses and binkies. They're gonna need the binkies, believe me. Especially the adults.