When doing a load of laundry becomes something to write home about

Last night, I met some friends for dinner at a Greek place downtown. It was awesome, I had some rice and potatoes and have enough food left for several lunches and dinners, given current rate of consumption.

During dinner, as I wailed on about my miseries as a Holy Vessel manufacturing a child, my friends daughter made a comment about a Russian woman who popped out 69 children. The geeks at the table immediately whooped out their smartphones to fact check, and lo and behold, Google confirmed. Wikipedia has an entry on it, and says it is listed in the Guinness Book of World Records. There seems to be some doubt as to the legitimacy of the exact claim of 69 (of which 67 survived infancy), but even if it’s a dozen or a couple off, that is a shitload of children.

Fine then, Russian lady back in 1765 or something, way to one up me. Several times.  But I just wanted to mention that this morning I got up and stuffed some dirty laundry in the washing machine, didn’t puke and felt immensely proud of myself.  Plus, made it to work on time-ish.

Things are looking up.

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