Ok, for all you overly critical people who think I’m an ignorant dreamer for believing Oprah could really be the next president, and that it’s kind of simple-minded to think that yet ANOTHER tv personality is the solution to our current disaster, well just RELAX. Oprah isn’t my #1 anyway, it’s just a silly delusion.
My real first choice is Randall Pearson. 
Me: “I just haven’t been feeling great for the past month. I’m exhausted and unmotivated and just want to hibernate.”
Therapist: “Wine or booze?”
Me: “Oh my god, yes! Please! Both!”
Therapist: “Excuse me?”
Me: “Huh?”
Therapist: “I said ‘winter blues?'”
Me: “Oh….”
Therapist: “What did you think I said?”
Me: “Nothing.”
Just thought you were offering an ACTUAL CONCRETE SOLUTION FOR ONCE.
Steph went to retrieve my nephew after his nap, and encountered him with poop all over his hands. Seems he woke up early, got bored, and found a way to entertain himself.
Kid is nothing if not resourceful.
(After Steph sends photo….)
One paragraph for Steph/Andrew, one paragraph for me/Eric.
The boys share a sentence.
Real Story: A guest at our wedding is a friend of Ben Platt’s parents. This guest told Ben’s parents that “You Will Be Found” was our first dance song, and Ben’s parents told Ben, who then very graciously offered to autograph a photo for us.
Story I tell myself: Oh, NBD but Ben Platt reads and loves the blog. Huge fan of mine. He knows I love Dear Evan Hansen and that “You Will Be Found” was our wedding song, so he contacted our photographer and arranged this whole surprise for us because, you know, that’s the kind of thing celebrities do for their fellow celebrity friends.
Story I tell others: One of the two above, depending on how well I know you and your ability to fact-check.
Me: “So today we are going to read this biography about Barack Obama.”
Kid: “Oh! That’s my Dad’s Christmas dinner guest!”
Me: “Um…explain.”
Kid: “So every year everyone in my family decides who we would invite to our Christmas dinner that year, if we could invite anyone in the world. My dad chose Barack Obama.”
Me: “Oh, I love that! And who did YOU choose?”
Kid: “Taylor Swift.”
Me: “Also a good one. And your Mom?”
Kid: “She chose ‘any black female voter from Alabama.'”
Me: 
Kid: “Yeah I didn’t really get it.”
Me: “Did you do your homework?”
Kid: “No, I didn’t have time. With Christmas and all.”
Me: “Christmas is still 2 weeks away.”
Kid: “I know, but like. There’s a LOT that goes into Christmas, you know? There’s a lot of stuff that leads up to it. It’s not just like you’re busy on that ONE day.”
Me: “I guess…”
(15 minutes later)
Me: “So what IS your family doing for Christmas?”
Kid: “Oh, my family? Nothing. We’re Jewish.”
Therapist: “So it seems like all those travel anxieties you had leading up to your Africa trip were, as usual, in vain, because none of them happened.”
Me: “Ummm….were you listening? I got a violent stomach bug, vomited across two separate countries/airports/airplanes, spent the whole last leg of the trip exhausted and achy– and I in fact STILL don’t feel like myself.”
Therapist: “Right but your fear is always that you’ll feel sick for no real reason. This was an actual REASON.”
Oh you are really fucking reaching today lady.
Doorman: “What’s that?”
Me: “It’s a newfound skip in my step, thanks to the defeat of Trump-supported child-molester Roy Moore, the win of a competent Democrat in deep-red Alabama, and a restored faith in humanity!”
Doorman: “No, that. On your face.”
Me: “Oh. That is chocolate.”
Doorman: “It’s 8:30am.”
Me: “I’M CELEBRATING.”
Things you overhear when you sip a coffee alone midday at the NY Historical Society Cafe, where the average age of patrons is roughly 91…
Lady: “My grandkids are terrible little people. So spoiled. All kids are now. Spoiled rotten, can’t do a damn thing for themselves.”
(Bites scone in shaky hand.)
Lady: “Stu died. Cancer. Terrible.”
(Reapplies lipstick.)
Lady: “What the hell is a Bitcoin?”
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