If you’re not reading Dooce, well you’re just missing all of the fun in your life:
I hopped out of bed, two rock hard concrete traffic mounds on my chest and ran to my binky-less Wonderchild, attaching her to my boob before I even had her out of the crib. She could barely keep up with the flow, my boob a gushing fire hydrant that she was trying to stop with her mouth.
And there I go again talking about my boobs. GOD! To the person who sent me an email to tell me that all I talk about anymore are my boobs, and that all this talk about my boobs is alienating my core audience, SORRY CORE AUDIENCE! Would you prefer I talk about my ass? The STORIES I could tell you about my ass.