In which I reverse my position on Farmville.

A wall in my office. I’m about to spend a lot less time with it. I’ve been building this for 4 1/2 years– many things have gone up, but I can’t think of one thing I’ve taken down.

I thought I’d be super clever and post something on facebook about how I get 1,000 requests to play Farmville and other nonsense. So I did. I posted this:

“Hey, just want to clear up a bit of confusion for everybody: I am not going to play Farmville with you. Not now, not ever.”

And lots of people (42 and counting!) “liked” it and a few people commented and there was silly banter and I mentioned something about how all of the requests came from my hometown and I was starting to think it was leftover high school code for “let’s get drunk in the cornfield,” and ha ha ha we are all laughing even if we didn’t graduate in my senior class of 120 kids because we know what Indiana is (supposedly) like.

And then, this happened:  a former classmate commented with a sincere apology for bothering me with these requests. She is now posting notices on her own page, asking for “do not contact” replies so she can make a list of people she should remove from her Farmville list because she really doesn’t want to get on their nerves if they don’t want to play. And this girl reeeeeeallly likes stuff like Farmville (which is fine! seriously!), and she goes to church with my parents, and lots of other life details which are now known to me thanks to Facebook and which make her somebody you just shouldn’t be picking on, you know?  Unless you’re a dick. Which, apparently, I am.

Know when to fold ’em.
Now that I’ve put the wheels in motion for this big job shift business, I spend an awful lot of time daydreaming about how I’m going to take care of all of this laundry.  Mounds and mounds of it, as soon as I’ve got a little more time; how easy it will all be, how neat, how not-wadded, and on and on about the laundry. I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve subconsciously quit my job just so I can fold clothes. That would suck.

SEVEN.
Today, my Bird turns that many. Seven. And we are going to get her ears pierced after school, right after I show up in her classroom at the appropriate time with two boxes of individually wrapped fig newtons (a baker, I am not) and jugs of apple juice which I have yet to purchase. I’m just hoping the Claire’s girls down at the mall can do both ears at the same time and get it over with, as much for me as for her.

My sweet girl. Beautiful and kind and giving and brave and forging new ground, all the time. She’s got a hard job as the first child of people who are clumsily, earnestly making it up as we go along. Fortunately, she’s willing to collaborate with us on that. I’m so very very lucky she’s mine, and even more honored to be hers.

Today’s thanks: My Bird, obviously. And my parents’ dependably adventurous spirit.

Today’s links:

Some pandas gettin’ down on a bamboo breakfast

 This threatens the punchline of my favorite hipster joke: Why did the hipster burn his mouth? Because he ate his pizza before it was cool. 

Potato Jesus in cake form, and in party form.

This kind of thing makes copywriters like me do a slow clap. 

And last but not least, my favorite essay on fall, ever, which I know I’ve linked to before but don’t care.

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