Isn't she just the cutest?

I have a case of blogstipation so severe that it’s driven my damn hives away. Nothing to write, no appealing situations involving me falling down or in love while intoxicated (that I recall). Nothing interesting is happening with the cats, other than me forgetting to give them their second dose of deworming meds, which is neither funny nor newsworthy, save the distinct possibility that one freakish lurker will probably call DC Feline Services on me now. At least then I’d have something to write about.

I could tell you how, while lounging on my couch on Columbus Day and watching Biography, I first found out at the seasoned age of 33 that Katharine and Audrey Hepburn were not sisters, but retelling this evidence of my stupidity in great detail only hurts this tender ego. I also thought about reposting an old entry and waiting to see if any of you noticed, but all of the ones I randomly chose were about old relationships, and I figured my spinster status would clue you into my feeble attempt at trickery.

This leaves me wishing I could rent a kid. I know that lots of you will balk at this, but children produce great blog fodder, and great marketable blog fodder at that. They are reliable in their curiosity, in their uncanny ability to say those darndest things, in their need to cut their own bangs and then lie to you about it. I’d probably rent an unattractive child, not a terribly ugly one, but at least one who’s peculiar in the face, and one with some interesting yet simultaneously revolting ability like being able to throw up Doritos on his or her own command. It would also have to be able to talk, even caveman-like, so I could include accounts of our witty interactions in supermarkets and at playdates. Bonus points if the child is old enough to speak but not yet understanding of social graces. “Are you mommy’s fat friend?” Ah, the beauty of it. You’d never hear anything so gorgeous out of Cricket.

It would also be preferable if my tiny one unwittingly kept nearly killing one of the cats, maybe by shutting it in the refrigerator or the dryer. Writing about this would enable me to join my love of humor (“Oh yes little Joe did!” accompanied by laugh track) and crime (“Yes, I’m pretty sure it is predictive of future violent crimes against persons.”) Or maybe we’d find out that my hives were a more serious allergy than once thought, and that I was allergic to my own child. Seriously, the possibilities are almost endless.

A baby perched on mama’s hip at a bar while she steals all but one of the olives from the bartender’s stash isn’t really funny or endearing, I don’t think, so I probably would have to return the child before the weekend. Then again, someone might snap a great picture of that little munchkin with a neon Bud Lite sign just above her head. I’m betting I could squeeze at least two posts out of that one.