This should surprise no one except for maybe the two people who just googled CONSTIPATED WALRUS BALL and pulled up this website for the first time that Jon has spent the last ten days researching the gravy out of how to use all his new video equipment. Also, we've been to therapy since the last video, and so this episode of our office remodel doesn't have the I REFUSE TO THANK YOU FOR UNLOADING THE DISHWASHER WHEN I HAD TO ASK YOU TO DO IT IN THE FIRST PLACE kind of tension going on.

However, I've heard that kind of tension is good for make-up sex.

(Skip that part, Dad. Mom, you know what I'm talking about.)

I think you'll like the improvements, including the surprise at the end. And yes, without giving too much away, that is photographic evidence of the mustard yellow pajamas and dead bird on my head from the weekend. Who loves you?

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If reincarnation is true, I want more than anything the ability to dance when I come back as another being. I don't care if I'm a frog or a piranha or a rock inside a cave. LET ME BE ABLE TO SAMBA! I could watch people dancing for hours. Forever, maybe. And when it's done right I get goosebumps and start to cry and feel like calling my mom to gush about the beauty of the earth because I know she won't go twitter about what a nitwit I am.

(plenty of Internet strangers already have that job covered)

I saw this on Kottke today and have watched it several times. And then I got goosebumps so badly that I had to go put on a coat. Maybe I'm being dramatic, but I am so envious of people with this talent.

Just, DAMN!

(also, seeing Patrick Swayze doesn't help the tears)

Everyone I know has had The Summer Cold, and up until last week I had managed to avoid that plague. Jon had it all week last week, and then I woke up Friday with my throat closed so tightly I couldn't even drink bourbon for breakfast. And I was all, what will my cousins in Tennessee think of me now!?

Chad! Robert! I promise I can still cook me up some good roadkill!

And it hit me hard. So hard that I put my pajamas on Friday night and did not change out of them until, oh, five minutes ago. Now, I don't own fancy pajamas. Mostly I just wear Jon's discarded XXL t-shirts. And it just so happened that the one I grabbed on Friday night was his mustard yellow Webtard t-shirt from Mule Design (note, the shirt has been discontinued, probably because they got as much hatemail as I'm going to get for even agreeing to own such a shirt in the first place, don't I know that some people have raised high-functioning webtards? And while you may see them as different they are just the most special beings in the world.)

Shit. I'm already a homophobe for suggesting that some gay men take a long time to get ready. And now I'm throwing around the word TARD. Next thing you know I'm going to be making fun of hill folk. Your unfollow finger is getting twitchy!

All of this to say, we have to take our garbage and recycling cans to the curb on Sunday nights, and Jon was in a rather untoward mood last night. So instead of asking him to do it and having him accuse me of nagging him to do it, I just up and done did it myself! In my pajamas. Barefoot. WEBTARD AND ALL.

Mind you, if I haven't changed out of my pajamas in over two days, it's pretty safe to say I haven't brushed my hair in just as long, and as I was walking out the door I caught a quick glimpse of myself in the glass of the window. HOO! What was that band called in the eighties? Flock of Seagulls? One of them up and died on top of my head!

So I was wheeling out the garbage can that was full of Marlo's poopy diapers when suddenly I saw a man in a suit rapidly approaching me, and since that can was so heavy I really couldn't drop it and run. Otherwise that thing would probably have crushed me. So I kept my head low, thinking surely this man would not see the dead bird on top of my head or the mustard yellow t-shirt or the fact that I did not have on a bra. There are only so many ways to make it look like you're not trying to cover up your bra-less boobs. I learned each of those ways last night. None of them are convincing.

Because it wasn't just the man in the suit who approached me, it was two other neighbors. THREE STRANGERS IN TOTAL. All eager to meet the new family on the street. Except my nose was running, I had WEBTARD written across my shirt, I was grabbing my boobs in all sorts of awkward ways, and my hair was pretending it was an entire crowd at a football game trying to do the wave except the fans in the end zones were messing it up because they were so drunk.

Oh, shame. Heather B. Armstrong is thy illustration.