I was trying to explain my negative associations with Hershey bars to A. yesterday. He wasn't getting it. When I was 7 years old, I had strep throat for about six months and couldn't shake it. I hated shots, so the doctor elected to give me oral penicillin, and I misunderstood him when he asked if I could swallow pills. So for 100 days, my mom had to crush up these nasty pills on a spoon with squares of Hershey bar to kill the taste. Every once in awhile, I catch that taste again; for instance, I tasted it when sampling a piece of herb gouda yesterday at the grocery store. But retelling that story now makes me really appreciate my mother.

You know you're practically married (or just extremely preoccupied with the wrong things) when you shift in your chair and think "Huh. That's funny. Why am I sore? Did I have sex last night? Oh. Hmm. I guess I did."

One of my favorite time-killers these days is reading Olly Platt's (my boss' boss) calendar. Like in Breakfast at Tiffany's: "This is a book would break the heart." The man goes to the dentist more than anybody I've ever known. You'd think he'd come up with a better excuse than that.