I took the day off work. What do I look like on my days off, you ask? Mad. Blurry. Pink lipped. My eyes even turn into octagons, the kind of octagons that pierce your soul if you stare at them for too long.

And what does any normal boy do on his day off? (“Get into trouble!” screams the distant, troubled reading public in unison.) NO. Normal boys make curried lentil soup.

Thar she is: the soup that looks all baby poop. Delicious, when you’re not thinking about that. That. How can you not think about that. I look at the soup and my mind goes to that time my little niece, now only a handful of months old, had what was appropriately referred to as a “blowout.” I know what else you’re thinking, and I’m just going to say NO, I don’t not live in a crack den. Jordan decorates with Lady of Guadelupe candles and wooden camels, okay? Okay.

Don’t these carrots look like The Suck? If I were the grocery store that sold these to me I’d be shamed to the point that I’d bow out of the business. I DON’T CARE IF IT’S DECEMBER IN MINNESOTA.

A better view of the table. Those aren’t bars on our windows. They’re part of the Islamic-Renaissance styling of the manor, okay? It’s fancy, alright? Okay.

FACT: never has a camera been able to capture Shlomo’s eyes. Never. FACT: cats don’t care if the chair is set up. They just don’t. They’re going to sit there anyway. They might even pee on it a little to claim it as their own.

Sometimes wordpress is stupid and doesn’t allow me to flip the picture, so here we have Normie defying gravity, expectations of beauty.

I quit that novel I started in November, and now I don’t even remember what it was about, which is a great sign, right?!?

Things I’ve been doing: moving, working, holidaying. Things to come: working, holidaying, traveling.

I’m taking a month off from blogging so that I can participate in NaNoWriMo. I’m really really really excited to write a horrible novel in just one month’s time. I’ll let you know how badly it goes when I’m done.

LOVE,

MORD

Last Sunday was my dad’s birthday. It was also 10/10/10, which is insignifcant, but people like to connect the dots whenever the dots look the same. But I do think it’d be kind of cool if my dad was turning 10 on 10/10/10. That’d be like a super golden birthday. But it’d also be weird if my dad were turning ten, because then I’d be more than twice his age. Plus I don’t want to think about my mom being with a ten year old. Above: a picture of two pictures. On the left we have my father, now 52. He’s excited by ” ‘vettes.” On the right is my neice. She’s excited by television in a way that I wish I still was. To the top left we have a brand name.

Here is some kind of caramel creation my mother put together. I think you just throw a bunch of random processed food together and then dump caramel on it. I was most confused by the Cheetos.

Crooked nostrils. One eye that closes more than the other. Facial hair that doesn’t match other hair. A nose that deserves some sort of blackhead-removing scrub. Skepticism surrounding the the Cheeto-caramel amalgam. It was a Sunday.

What is this creature?

I’m thinking about getting a new lens for my camera for my birthday. Any suggestions?!?! I haz a Nikon D50.

Mama made enchiladas and rice. She also made a cake that fell apart, but people really enjoyed it anyway.

Action shot! Here Olivia flicks me off while my mother and brother do some kind of football-esque hand-off. Sports reference.

Babies are fun because gravity is still new to them. This makes it easy to impress them. All you have to do is hold them high in the air and they’re all “THIS FEELS DIFFERENT!” and then they either smile or throw up on you. Or poop themselves.

The above pictures were taken 3 seconds apart.

Olivia with our new friend Sullivan, Nicki’s babe.

I realize that this post is more baby than “Mexican food.” Here’s why: if you’re in a room with two babies under 3 months they kind of preoccupy you. It’s like you have to keep checking on them to make sure they really exist. Above, Sullivan appears to exist. He also looks like a gentleman, even when adorned with skulls.

Olivia has learned the art of rolling over. This is fun for grown humans, because it’s an opportunity to watch the child really struggle with something.

Here it is from the top. Part of my really wants to go into joke cake making for a living. But then I think: What would Amy Sedaris do? And I realize: She would do that. So I’ve decided: I’m going to make joke cakes for a living. Sorry, amazing new job, there are joke cakes to be made. And with the global marketplace and the Web 2.0 I’m sure my joke cake business will take off in a snap, right, Jay M. Boller?

Here’s an example of a joke cake. This one’s not really my style, because, you see, I’m not tacky. I do enjoy the contrast of image and traditional decoration, but am freaked out by the photo’s title, “funny and sexy cake.” I also don’t want to be the kind of cake maker who bakes for hours and hours with the singular goal of making the cake look like, I dunno, a ham:

That’s just a turn off. Sure you may get a chuckle, but it’s not a Star of David cake. The humor in my cakes will be subtle, nuanced, varied. PhD students will one day study my cakes, disassemble their layers of meaning, and come up with their own completely wrong interpretations of my cakes.

Now this is a cake. Surprising, yet inevitable, this sweet inspires with its chubby limbs and dedication to creepiness. I especially enjoy the details: cutesy ruffles around the bulging arms and legs, darling flowers decorating the child’s rotund backside. One can only hope that the doll can still coo on demand. “DADA,” the cake cries as you bite into its moist center.

WHAT UP. Went to Turtle Bread to pick up some buns for work. GOT A LITTLE SOMETHIN’ FOR MYSELF TOO. Chiggin tortilla soup, above.

CENSORED PHOTO (apparently i had a check on my desk, and you could read all of the numbers if you made the photo big. COOL!)

Also, my mood was elevated slightly yesterday by the arrival of these two gems. Thanks, Internet shopping! “Freedom” is our next book club pick. And apparently Oprah also chose this as her next book club selection. But I’m not in Oprah’s Book Club. My book club drinks. Heavily.

Here the soup looks greazy. I apologize for that.

Here I am, possessed by something SOUPER. You sick of that one yet? Sick of the way I’ve used that play on words twice? I’m too possessed to care. Also, I dress like a prisoner. A prisoner to something so souper I can hardly contain myself.

Above: lunch life. Back to werk.

My plan was to eat donuts from A Baker’s Wife while watching Twin Cities Marathon. This didn’t quite work out, and we ended up eating our pastries at the apartment, and then going on a walk along the Twin Cities Marathon path. Here’s something I found out: Just watching marathoners make me feel physically ill.

Jordan got and ate this caramel cake thingy. He seemed pleased. I think you can call the above photo an action shot, as the innards are dripping at a ferocious pace.This monster is something they called an American Teacake. It was amazing. I should note that the other side is coated in powdered suga’, natch.

Here’s a pic of the foamy latte I got at the race. I think this was only my fourth cup for the day.

Here’s an angry young citizen. One day he will be an angry old citizen.

Patriotism! Fall colors! People doing what? Who cares.

Here are some runners, walking.

Again, American teacake: more fascinating than a run.

Oh no! Someone’s mansion got TP’d!

Dogs are fascinating creatures. Especially if they’re smiley.

Let me guess: God hates runners? What would a marathon be without some extreme Evangelism?

I was considering making an album of people laying on the ground while watching the marathon. But they woulda all been kids, except for this dude.

This house had a nice shadow.

This girl was pretending to be a fire hydrant. The marathon was just “OK.”

This post is about what I didn’t eat in Vegas last March. I’ll be honest: the food I had there was un-delicious. And I became horribly sick one night after meeting with a piece of “supreme” pizza. To wit: I heaved and ho’d until I was depleted of vitals. We’re talking ILLNESS. And lots of it. Spewing from me. BUT I’M NOT GOING TO TALK ABOUT IT. Above: My mom and sister ride an outdoor escalator. It’s early morning, and Vegas is sleeping, except for the people who are not sleeping and probably never will, not until they hit the pool at 11 a.m. and purchase a 4-foot-tall tropical rum-spiked beverage, the kind that comes in a plastic tube.

Above: My father’s below.

Above: The rest of my father.

Above: Here we see something just heartbreaking. Vegas is known for its homeless children who have Pre-gambler’s gambling addiction. It’s quite sad: they come out of the womb with a thirst for craps. They usually don’t become full-blown crappers until they turn legal, 21 here, and until then they wander the streets lying, looking sweet, telling people they’re “midwestern.” It’s estimated that Vegas has over 40,000 vagrant pre-gambling-addicted children. It’s not hard to snap a photo of one. Or two.

Above: Bloated has-been sighting.

Above: Though Vegas is more known for hookers-n’-blow than stunning modern architecture, this structure proves that Sin City is looking to get EXPENSIVE by adding straight lines and trippy skyscrapers that lean like Pisa, or a homey.