Quarantine Homeschooling

I kinda feel like that old lady from Titanic right now.

“It has been 84 years…”

We are in our third year of quarantine homeschooling. And by “year,” I mean “week,” because time passes differently now. You know how they say dogs age seven years for every human year? Well, the same is true for quarantine homeschooling parents.

(I suppose now is a good time to say I’m grateful for a home, my husband’s job, health, etc. before anyone says, “Hey, count your blessings.” I’m grateful, I promise!)

Before the boy started kindergarten many years ago, I considered homeschooling him. We did a lot of work at home, so building on that with the flexibility homeschooling offered seemed like a good idea. After much discussion, we went with public school, as LM was super excited about going and making friends. (He is now a total homebody and hasn’t complained the first time about not getting to go out and see people. Go figure.)

And along came Baby Girl. Homeschooling wasn’t on the table with her as much.

For the record, I’ve taught the child plenty (she started kindergarten reading), but it’s like pulling teeth at times. She often doesn’t like to cooperate and acts clueless about things I know she knows.

So, blonde Baby Girl is back. I couldn’t part with the old doodle for her.

Sigh.

It has been like this ever since I tried to teach her the ABCs and how to count to 10 as a toddler. As far as I can tell, she has done much better for her preschool and kindergarten teachers than she does for me, at least, which is true for a lot of kids.

And now we’re quarantine homeschooling. I have to admit — the reason for the homeschooling aside — I was rather excited at first. The adjustment to full-day kindergarten has been tough at times, so getting so much extra time together and getting to test the homeschool waters was exciting. (And now I know that it doesn’t really replicate the actual homeschool experience since we can’t go anywhere or be around anyone!) Same with LM, who started middle school this year.

The excitement turned to feeling drained pretty darn fast, but it has been…interesting. For example, I’m not always homeschooling a little girl and tween. Sometimes I’m homeschooling a lion and a tween. When the girl isn’t pretending to have forgotten everything she knows, she likes to get in touch with her inner animal. She is obsessed with animals, especially African savanna animals, and lions and other big cats are a favorite. BG loves pretending to be a lion, which sent her to the ER in January because she fell off the bed and busted her head open while pouncing. This is how our homeschool work goes sometimes:

It’s like Max from “Where the Wild Things Are” in real life. And sometimes I get to homeschool a hyena, an animal Baby Girl thinks is the cutest ever. (This child had me make her a hyena mask for their Father-Daughter Masquerade dance!)

Little Man doesn’t get in touch with his inner animal, but he is rather like a little zombie. Just replace “eating brains” with “eating everything in our pantry,” because the child does not get full. He has been in growth-spurt stage for a long time!

Another interesting aspect of quarantine homeschooling has been Zoom. I had never heard of this app before two weeks ago, but a lot of teachers are using it to do virtual lessons. It’s kind of like FaceTime, but with a bunch of people.

That hasn’t actually happened with Zoom, but it has happened with FaceTime plenty of times. With FaceTime, the kids do not sit still and talk to their grandparents or whoever else calls, but instead run all over the house, giving everyone a peak at our messes and bralessness. Well, my bralessness. For Zoom, I’ve avoided that so far by plugging in my laptop at the end of the kitchen table in front of a shelf, which I dusted part of. (Not the whole shelf, just the part in view of the camera.) I love that the kids have the opportunity to connect with their classmates, and some of the kids’ comments are hilarious. Hopefully we can avoid the TMZ type exposé.

Touching on LM a little more, no surprise here, but he hasn’t really been into the homeschool aspect of quarantine homeschooling. (He loves the isolation, though.)

It’s hard to say “no” to that.

Our schools are shut down through the end of April (and we’ll see from there), so we’ll have plenty of time to get the hang of this thing, and maybe I’ll even tame my little lion cub.

What’s going on in your world?


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“V” Is For “Vasectomy.” And “Valium.”

After almost two weeks of homeschooling, I’m trying to figure out how I want to translate the experience to doodleverse. Do I talk about how I’m aging in dog years now or how I’m about to have a “Here’s Johnny!” moment? Hmm.

In the meantime, here’s an old post about the time my husband got a vasectomy.


A little over a year ago, my husband got a vasectomy. Before you go, “TMI, my friend, TMI,” you should know that the moments leading up to that procedure were hilarious (well, embarrassing at first, but hilarious later), and those moments are the basis of today’s post.

Between pushing 40, having two kids, and having a wife whose birth control packets were often only half used, my husband decided that a vasectomy was necessary. After it was scheduled, he was instructed to take a Valium the morning before surgery, something that he had never taken before. I hadn’t taken it before either, but we both assumed it would just loosen him up and help him relax a little.

It relaxed him, all right. It relaxed him to the point that the half hour leading up to surgery was simultaneously the most hilarious and embarrassing half hour I have ever spent in my life. Eventually I took to writing down his comments on my phone, since I knew they’d make for great blog material later.

Here’s how that half hour went…

Regarding another urologist who walked into the building:

After a bunch of nurses walked in, he loudly remarked:

When his urologist entered:

(Someone clearly didn’t read his vasectomy procedure packet.)

On a female patient who came in:

Thoughts on Valium, while kicked back in a chair in the waiting room:

Regarding a nurse who came in only five minutes early.

I have no idea what this one was about:

After the procedure was over:

(I wasn’t very amused there, since I was kind of on the fence about the procedure. I love all the babies.)

I vote that they should officially rename the vasectomy the “Snip-Snip-Sniparoo.” At the very least, they should add that plus “No more babies for you” to their educational material.

Which was your favorite Valium inspired comment?

My Little Artist

It has been more than a year since my last original post, and wow, things have changed so much around here. For starters, we’re older. Imagine that! Time passes and we age, it’s like we’re special or something!

The Artist Formerly Known As Little Man is 12 now and in middle school. Should I call him TAFKALM? Stick with Little Man, despite the growth spurt that has practically bankrupted us? Maybe go with The Sorta Man? Heh. And Baby Girl is five and in kindergarten. My babies are getting old on me.

The past year has been…real. Isn’t that what people say when there’s really too much to say? “It’s been real.” Things have been real on a parenting level, personal level, and whatever other level there is. Between that and getting rather burned out on the blog stuff, I’ve been away from the doodleverse. And now we’re all confined to the house like so many others thanks to the coronavirus, including my husband who is working home from again, and things are…well, they’re still real, but in a sense that frees up a large chunk of my time.

My calendar was slammed early last week, but it emptied real fast. No more spending close to three hours transporting children to/from school, going to the girl’s speech/occupational therapy appointments, taking them to soccer/theater practice, going to my own appointments, volunteering, running errands, or doing anything else besides going over the kids’ lessons with them. (Can you see that I’m trying to justify my absence with the busyness?) I don’t know how long this will go on more than anyone else, but in the meantime, I’m going to use some of that extra time on creative stuff like this blog.

Moving on to the doodles. I never really updated our looks from when I first started blogging in 2016, so I guess it’s time for that. Before I share the new photo, here’s how I originally doodled us when I started this blog:

So sweet, right? And here’s us in 2020:

Well, if I’m being truthful, it’s more like this with the 12-year-old:

I’m not including the new wrinkles or gray hairs or split ends or extra…baggage. We’ve got that in spades, but if the celebrities can get air-brushed for magazine covers, then I suppose I can do the doodled version of that for us. 😉 After Baby Girl begged to have her hair cut off, we can’t see anymore peaks of blond, so I darkened her hair up. (Maybe summer will bring them back.) I’ll likely doodle her with a hair bow if I can remember so she doesn’t look too much like younger Little Man. My husband now sports a nice beard. And if Little Man doesn’t stop growing, he’ll be taller than me before long. Ch-ch-changing!

As you can imagine, plenty has happened over the past year that is worth writing about. The girl is funnier than ever, after all. (As for the boy…well, like I said, he’s 12.) For the first post, I settled on something familiar–Baby Girl’s ability to cut to the quick. She can be quite savage with her comments, and here are a couple of old doodles that show that:

That was around Christmastime when she was three. Apparently Goodwill has a “No live persons/animals” policy.

And then there was the time when the boy tried teaching her some Yo Mama jokes, which backfired on him.

They might look different, but things haven’t changed much on that front with Baby Girl. She has developed a bit of a filter, but she doesn’t use it often with her brother. I feel like I should add that we correct her and so on, but it’s a work in progress.

Baby Girl got mad at Little Man last week for something I can’t remember. Rather than yell at him, she decided to work out her anger with her artwork, which we learned when she loudly described her drawing.

The drawing:

She also added that she put check marks on everyone she wanted, “which is everyone except Little Man.” We told BG that it wasn’t nice to say things like that and that such comments would hurt her brother’s feelings. (It did not; he snickered over it.) Baby Girl started drawing again, and this time she was more inclusive of her brother.

“I drew hearts for our ENTIRE family!” she said proudly and held up the drawing.

“I did them in everyone’s favorite color, too. However many hearts you have is how much I love that person. So, Mommy has five hearts, I have three hearts, Daddy has two hearts, and Little Man has one heart.”

Oof.

(She really loves me, though.)


Thanks for joining me again!

Follow along on Facebook and share with any friends who could use a laugh or two!

Hello, Tweendom

My son will turn 11 next week. When he turned 10 last year, he was still in that “little boy” phase. He didn’t look much different than he did when he was in second grade and showed no signs of puberty being close. So, when he announced that he was in his tweens, I chuckled to myself, since he still seemed like a little boy. This year, however, things are very different.

To start off, the boy has shot up 5 inches since this time last year. We have bought so many clothes over the past year, and since he’s still in growth spurt phase (as he has been for the past five months it seems), the jeans we bought him on Black Friday are getting close to being too short. His voice has gotten a little deeper, too. If you compare his school picture to the past three (which all looked almost exactly the same), there’s no doubt that he has left those little boy years behind. And if the growth spurt and everything wasn’t proof enough, then the behavior sure is.

I’ve heard parents complain about the tween years. “They hate us, they think we’re wrong about everything, they’re grumble and complain all the time…” I thought to myself that surely my good-natured little boy would never go down the path of the Dark Side, but you know how the my-kid-will-never works out, right?

The Look has become a fixture in our lives lately.

If pictures below look anything like your life, then you just might be raising a tween. Or a three-year-old.

Just kidding. I see a fair amount of that surliness, but not all the time, of course.

Wish me luck.

What’s new in your world? 

Catch You On The Flippity-Flip, 2018!

Since I’m often running behind, I’m a little late saying goodbye to 2018. I could have done that yesterday, but I forgot. Lateness and forgetfulness…if I were a New Year’s resolutions sort of person, I’d probably address that. But I’m not, so you can continue expecting tardiness and absentminded stuff from me.

To officially say goodbye to 2018, I’d like to tip my hat to the top five posts from last year. This is based on the number of views for the posts published in 2018.

How To Lose A Mom Friend In 10 Days

In this post: I give you some tips for ditching annoying mom friends. This was my most viewed and most commented on post that was published in 2018 and had over 100 likes.

This post was published last July, and you can find it here.

Parenting Music

In this post: I talk about how the meaning of song lyrics changes after having kids. Also in this post…I make you question my abilities as a mother after showing my son a video for the DMX song Party Up.

This post was also published last July, and you can find it here.

That Time I Went Skiing

In this post: you read about a girl in middle school being clumsy and embarrassing herself by breaking her ass.

This post was published last March, and you can find it here.

Parenting Drinking Game

In this post: it’s pretty self-explanatory — it’s a game that involves drinking, and it’s intended for parents. A word of caution — unless your children are little angels (and don’t tell us if they are, because we’ll be jealous and hate you), then you’ll probably die if you try to play this game.

This post was published last May, and you can find it here.

Parenting Advice: Freaking Socks

In this post: I try my hand at giving out parenting advice, and the biggest thing I could come up with after 10 years of parenting was to advise you guys not to buy your kids matching socks. It was funnier than it sounds.

This post was published last October, and you can find it here. (And I realize that I promised this would be a series, but I never followed through on that. I have a draft, if that counts.)

What I learned from my top 5: y’all like posts that are — at a minimum — borderline inappropriate. You guys especially like posts that encourage you to be a bit assholish. I’ll take this lesson into 2019 and try to give the people what they want.

Which Dorky Mom Doodles post did you really like in 2018? AND, what was your favorite post you published to your own blog in 2018 — share a link!

#TBT: That Time I Broke My Ass

Right now I’m sitting in my car heading to the mountains. And I’m wearing my headphones, so I’m not having to listen to the kids complain. #ParentingWin and also, #PrayForMyHusband. While we’re on our short trip, we plan to go snow tubing. As such, I thought sharing this old post would be appropriate. Keep my butt in your thoughts and prayers…


I’m not known for being coordinated. Anyone who knows me in real life will be thinking, “That’s the understatement of the year,” but that’s basically the truth. I’m not one of those people who can walk from one place to the other without tripping over something. Sometimes it’ll be a something that I didn’t see and other times it’ll be tripping over my own feet. Occasionally this leads to broken bones and scrapes, but mostly it just leads to my being pretty darn embarrassed.

Eighth grade was a lot of fun for middle school, but it wasn’t kind to me as far as my bone health went. Aside from breaking my foot after hopping a fence/rail type thing at Carowinds, there was also the incident that occurred when our grade went on a ski trip.

My grandmother encouraged me to stay home from that trip, by the way. She knew. Obviously that wasn’t happening, since the ski trip was a pretty big deal, so I assured her that I would be fine and went.

Ha.

After we got to the ski lodge, I went through the thing they had set up for beginners and by lunch time, I was ready to go down the intermediate trail. So I went down it a couple of times to build up my confidence.

My confidence built up quickly. Too quickly.

The third time I went down, I decided to go down fast, so down the hill I went in a straight line, like a bullet.

About halfway down, I realized that I was going too fast. I knew that if I didn’t start slowing my ass down, I would going to crash into something or someone at the bottom. So, I turned my skis inward to try to slow down. Except I turned my skis in too much so that they crossed to form an X, and I lost my balance. Not good. I did a front flip, landed hard on my butt, and rolled down the hill.

Ouch.

My body hurt all over, but not as bad as my ego. A classmate helped me up, and I was done for the day. At least I got to enjoy half of the day.

The next day, my butt region was so sore that my grandma wouldn’t let me go to school and took me to the doctor.

After doing an x-ray, the doctor told me that I fractured my tailbone. I was told to take it easy, no softball (and tryouts were the very next week), and that I should sit on a little cushion to stay comfy while it healed up.

After the weekend, I went to school with my cushion. I didn’t think anything about it until a friend snatched it up and exclaimed, “Erika, you got hemorrhoids?!” during homeroom. Heads turned.

I explained to her that no, I did not have hemorrhoids and that I had fractured my tailbone.

About eight years later, I decided to give skiing another try. This is how far I made it:

I totally froze up and wasn’t moving anywhere. My body knew right then that it had no business trying to go skiing, so after much discussion over whether or not we should stay and see if I changed my mind, we ended up asking for a refund. Even though there weren’t supposed to be any refunds, we were given one anyway. I suppose the look of sheer panic on someone’s face will bend the rules a bit.

Have you ever broken your ass? How about any other bones?


Time to plug the book!

Rachel at Pretty In Baby Food had some lovely things to say about “Don’t Lick That!” Check out the review on her blog, plus enter the giveaway on her site to win a copy of the book. If you already purchased the book, enter anyway — if you win, you can gift the code to a friend that you think would enjoy the book!

“Don’t Lick That!” is available for purchase as an eBook on Amazon and as a paperback through Amazon or Barnes and Noble. (Amazon has free shipping for Prime users, but right now things are glitchy, saying shipping will take a while, so keep an eye out for that. This isn’t an issue with B&N.) If you have a Kindle Unlimited subscription, you can read the book for free. If you purchase the book and enjoy it, please consider leaving feedback on Amazon, B&N, or Goodreads.

What Partying In Your 30s Looks Like

Age might just be a number, but there still comes a time when you know your days of being considered young are officially behind you. That day might come when you hear kids refer to something you liked when you were younger as “old school.” Or, it might be when you’re filling out forms online and have to move up from the age bracket that includes ages 18-34 to 35-50. (That’s happening for me next month. RIP my youth.) If you don’t consider those indicators of moving from youngish adult to adult-adult, then maybe it’s having sound effects accompanying you when you get up in the mornings.

One of my least favorite parts of getting older is my stomach. I absolutely cannot stomach some of the things I used to have no problem with. For example, pepperoni and chocolate give me heartburn. Just looking at raw cookie dough makes the acid in my stomach start moving upwards. And alcohol? Oh lord. Now, this doesn’t mean that I don’t still partake in any of the things mentioned, but there will be consequences.

Back in my college days, it was a rare thing for me to ever get a hangover. It didn’t matter the amount I drank or what combination I had (I knew some people who would get sick off of mixing beer and hard liquor). I rarely felt bad the next day. But these days? If I have as much as one cocktail, my body usually makes sure I pay for it, whether it’s within the hour or the next morning.

This brings me to partying in your 30s. First of all, people in their 30s don’t often refer to their gatherings as “parties.” We call them “get-togethers” or “cookouts” or just say “we’re hanging out.” Unless it’s for a special event, there usually aren’t parties. And while our get-togethers are still a lot of fun, they often look very different from what parties in our 20s looked like.

In your 20s, you’ll almost always see someone doing a keg stand or shotgunning a beer. And you’ll definitely see someone playing quarters or beer pong.

Fast forward to your 30s, and hello, exciting night of board and card games! Maybe you don’t do something this tame every time you get together, but how often did board games make an appearance during the 20s? Probably never.

At parties in your 20s, it was hard to go more than 10 minutes without hearing someone yell out, “Shots!” The frequency of that word being yelled out decreases big time in your 30s.

The only shots you’re saying “Yes” to every half hour in your 30s are shots of Pepto Bismol.

Did you like staying up until the wee hours of the morning in the club on New Years Eve/Day when you were in your 20s? (Technically, I never did, but I’m putting myself in a club for the purpose of this post.)

Well, this is what New Years Eve may look like in your 30s.

That was our last New Years Eve. Usually we at least do a get-together with friends, but we were having a hard time even holding our heads up at midnight on this one.

And the only drugs you see at parties in your 30s are the kind you find over-the-counter at the pharmacy.

So, I have headache powder, tums, and if you want something strong–Zyrtec.

Isn’t getting older fun?

What’s something you find yourself doing at parties/get-togethers these days that reminds you that you aren’t young anymore? 

A Dorky Brain

Since I’m still neck-deep in the book stuff and haven’t had time for a normal blog post over the past week, I thought I’d share a doodle I’m including in the book.

(The other doodles have stories or anecdotes. This is just a doodle I used to close out the chapter that has stories about me.)


For a couple of housekeeping type things–

  • I am creating a mailing list. (That’s on the list of things you’re supposed to do when you write a book, so I’m checking that off.) I’ll use it to send out a weekly blog recap and book updates and promotions. This is mostly to avoid cluttering up the blog with that sort of stuff later. You can click this link to subscribe to the mailing list.
  • If you want to help me promote the book once I have a release date, email me at dorkymomdoodles (at) gmail.com.

And that’s that. The awkward self-promotion crap is over for now.


What does your brain look like? 

Just Call Me Super Mom

Have you ever seen those stickers and t-shirts that say, “I’m a teacher, what’s your superpower?” Maybe insert “nurse, mailman, or [whatever else]” for teacher. Well, I might not be a teacher anymore, but I am a mom, and by default, that means I have a number of superpowers. There are things I can do that no one else in my house has the power to do, and while they may not be as glamours as shooting fire from the palm of my hands, these powers are still pretty cool. (I’m being very liberal with my use of the world “cool,” by the way.) As such, I expect my invitation to the Justice League to arrive any day now.

Enhanced Vision

Thanks to my super enhanced vision, I’m able to spot items that are too small to be seen with the naked eye. This comes in very handy around the house, and I often become The Finder of the Things.

Why, yes, I can see through walls.

Step aside, Superman. Your microscopic vision has nothing on mine. The only thing my enhanced vision is unable to detect is socks. As you’ll recall from my last post, they’re basically my kryptonite.

Super Strength

Wonder Woman can throw cars and the such, but can she do the one thing that no one else in my house has the strength to do?

That’s right, I alone have the strength to do things like remove empty toilet paper rolls and replace them with new ones. I’m also the only person strong enough to close a cabinet door. At first glance, you might think that doing such things would be easy, but based on my family’s inability to complete such tasks, I came to realize my own strength. Clearly things like cabinet doors, toilet paper rolls, and clothes — which the people in my house manage to get to the bathroom but can’t actually  put them in the hamper — weigh a ton. I might not look like I have much in the way of muscles, but sometimes looks can be deceiving.

Mind Reading

Have you ever noticed that children can be super vague at times when it comes to telling you what they want or whatever it is that they have a problem with? They sometimes give you the absolute bare minimum in the way of details and expect you to be able to figure it out anyway. Maybe not everyone could figure out what, “I want [incoherent mumbles]” means, but I can, thanks to being able to read minds. I’m basically Charles Xavier with more hair.

I don’t even have to wait for her to finish that question before I say, “No.”

This comes in handy with lying, too. I don’t catch them telling lies often, but I always know when they do.

Mom Sense

You’ve heard of spidey sense, but have you heard of mom sense? It works pretty much the same, only instead of being able to deflect the Green Goblin’s pumpkin bombs, I do things like catch a falling cup of milk and stop the kids from ending up in the ER.

Catching a glass of milk might not be as satisfying as deflecting a bomb, but at least I don’t have a mess to clean up.

So, yeah, I’ve got powers. The only things I’m missing is the ability to fly, turn invisible, and having super stretchy arms. Becoming invisible would be nifty when they’re annoying me and I want a moment of peace and quiet, and that last one would come in extra handy when we’re in the car.

What’s your superpower? 

Book update time: “Don’t Lick That! [Tales of Parenting and Other Madness]” should be out within the next couple of months if everything goes as planned. (Self-published — it will be available on Amazon and other online retailers.) I’m in the final stages now and am trying to figure out the whole marketing thing. One suggestion I read was to form a “street team” (rolls eyes) to help with online promotion. If you’d be interested in doing that (I’ll form a Facebook group), email me at dorkymomdoodles@gmail.com. (I feel awkward as hell about this, but that’s better than other suggestions I read like making a video or podcast.)

Parenting Advice Series: Freaking Socks

Someone told me that I should give parenting advice on my blog. I snickered to myself when she said it, because what the heck do I have to offer people in terms of advice? I’ve been a mom for a decade, and I’m only slightly less clueless than the day I brought the first kid home from the hospital. I’m useless where getting picky eaters to eat goes. I couldn’t tell you how to get the kids out the door so you can get to school on time. And I definitely couldn’t tell you how to deal with tantrums, relatives who think they know how to raise your kids better than you, or how to keep car seats clean.

“Maybe I’ll do that,” I said, because I didn’t want to say, “I’m the last person anyone should come to for parenting advice.”

But then — nine months later (because it takes the same amount of time for me to have a good idea as it does to grow a baby) — I was folding clothes and I had a thought.

Oooh, SOCKS. Maybe I do have a little parenting advice to offer the world.  (Well, if not the world, then new parents, at least.) It only took a moment of rage to figure that out. And then I started thinking about other things along those lines, and boom — I had enough stuff to make a post. Or two. Or three.

Here we go.

In my time as a parent, I’ve learned that you should never buy cute socks for the kids. Cute socks come in different cute designs and colors, and do you know what all of that cuteness means? NEVER HAVING A PAIR OF SOCKS THAT MATCH. I wish you could see my laundry basket right now. It is full of cute socks that are missing their mates. There is even a sock that fit my preemie sized Baby Girl in the basket that is holding out hope that one day I’ll find the other one. (I refuse to throw it away. I’ll take that baby sock to my grave if I have to.)

I don’t have a clue where the damn things go, either. It’s almost like someone is breaking in my house when I’m not home and stealing socks here and there. If you’ve watched Home Alone, then you’ve heard of the Wet Bandits, and now there’s the Sock Bandits. All they take is one sock from each matching pair, because they want to slowly drive you insane.

(If those guys look familiar, it’s because they made an appearance in a post I did where I mentioned using a bug spray of sorts to get rid of religious people showing up unannounced. I guess payback is a bitch.)

I’ve looked in all the drawers, under the couch, in the toy boxes, and I cannot find them. I get missing a few socks, but I have at least 40 socks in that basket.

Are the sock companies in cahoots? Do they rig the socks in a way that makes one of them self-destruct after a certain amount of time, so that you have to keep buying more? Because — aside from the self-destruct component costing more than the sock itself costs to be made — that’s a good explanation.

Or maybe there is a portal to another dimension in my house that only socks can access. There is another world completely filled with socks that don’t match. Or maybe it’s not another dimension at all and is just part of one of the circles of Hell that wasn’t mentioned in Inferno. Dante was all like, “Shit, socks are boring, so I’ma focus on people being ripped apart by dogs.” In a less exciting area, there was a pile of socks that the sinners had to sort through for eternity.

I can understand why he would leave that out, since writing about sock sorting in a poem is kind of lame.

(New thought: a series on the nine circles of hell, parenting style.)

So, take it from me — don’t buy socks with designs or colors or brand logos or anything. Don’t be like me and go, “Ugh, those plain socks are so fugly, I’m gonna get these cute stripey ones where each pair comes in a different color and maybe the moon and stars will align and none of them will get lost.”

Where do you think the socks go?