I'm not smarter than a fifth grader

She tossed out her hands, tipping each extended arm like a scale, and proclaimed white chocolate to have no difference from dark chocolate.

Her voice boomed with authority, echoed off the vaulted ceilings of the that tiny gymnasium, and urged all 200 of the other children to listen and believe. Her arms flailed, her face scowled and softened, gesticulating human rights on her elementary school.

Oh, did I mention she was in fifth grade?

I sat in a metal folding chair behind a table decorated with pins and plaques and certificates of accomplishment. They invited me specially to judge their oratory skills as if my occupation as a writer meant something. Or maybe they meant to prove a point to a local journalist.

Ladies and gentlemen, these kids are the future.

We have nothing to worry about.

Baby wants Nachos!

Look at the cute little baby wiggling inside my wife's tummy, waving his or her stubby arms at me.

That's right. The baby waved at me. Or taunted me. I'm not sure of much anymore accept that I have no defenses against the little bugger.

I think my wife knows it, too. The changes started ever since we brought home ultrasound pictures of our tiny nugget of baby goodness. No. I'm not talking about morning sickness or cravings or your typical pregnancy shenanigans. I'm talking about my wife's new found power to coerce me into husband slavery.

Let me explain. The longer we're married, the easier it becomes for me to say, "No, my love. I don't want to get out of the nice warm bed and run down to the frigid cold kitchen and fill your glass with fresh drinking water."

But I can't refuse the baby, and my wife knows it.

So she says to me, "Adam, the baby needs fresh water."

"Adam, the baby needs to be healthy. Can you cut up an apple?"

"Adam, the baby needs you to do the dishes."

Oh really? The baby needs me to do the dishes?

"Yes. They are beginning to smell, and the baby says it's going to barf."

I look at my wife. Then I look at ultrasound photo stuck to the fridge with a purple magnet and I realize how cuddly that baby will be in my arms someday. Of course I'll do the dishes.

"Actually, Adam, the baby wants nachos from Taco Bell right now."

Mmmm.... Taco Bell. At least the baby has good taste.

Actually, I'm making most of this up. At least some of it. The not made up parts are true.

My fleeting brilliance

I curled in bed the other night on top of a two-inch memory foam padded mattress and mused deeply in the darkness.

I envisioned my blog the next day filled with a profound analysis and vision of my life.

But, as my enlightened mind should have predicted, I don't remember more than a fleeting notion of brilliance that surfaced in the final cognizant moments of my sleep-heavy brain.

Now all I can think to write is the perplexing reality that sludge-filled chili cheese burritos from Taco Bell - which I'm convinced are filled with little more than the meat grease left over in the fry pan thickened with low-grade cheese - taste absolutely delicious.

And I want a chocolate doughnut.

Oh! Christmas Tree

I have a caffeine headache that feels like Stretch Armstrong bench pressing on the inside of my skull.

That's what I get for waiting three-quarters of my day to sip the elixir if awakening.

What put me over edge was an E-mail containing these delicious images: