I have had the good fortune of being trapped in my home office for the last few days, surrounded by tall boxes of envelopes, cardboard, and photographs as I try to mail all the photos that lots of kind folks have purchased. It still blows my mind that people actually like my photographs enough to buy them and then display them in their homes or offices or rumpus rooms or outhouses or wherever. That's such an incredible honor. Thank you for that. I've put up quite a few more fully-matted, limited edition photos in the store today, because I don't know if I am going to be able to do this next week after my wife goes back to work.

Today is also the official release date of Heather B. Armstrong's anthology of essays on fatherhood. Not only does the book feature an essay or two by dooce herself, but Alice from Finslippy, Sarah from Que Sera Sera, Eden from Fussy, Doug from Laid-Off Dad, Greg from Daddytypes and Maggie from Mighty Girl. Oh, and me. I don't know who else has essays in it yet because our Border's already sold out, and the only other bookstores in Detroit tend to be of the "adult" variety. Now I'm going to have to spend all afternoon investigating whether any of them carry it. You can buy the book here.

Also, I just want the record clear that for the first time in my life, I am glad that my wife only drank vodka shots and Mike's Hard Lemonade when imbibing during the first few years of our relationship, a fact that embarrassed me quite a bit at the time. Otherwise I might have ended up buying said lemonade for my child at a baseball game like this poor archaeologist, whose kid was put in foster care for a few days while a busted system sorted things out. Oh who am I kidding, like I'd ever spend seven dollars on a lemonade. When we go to baseball games, we sneak in our food and drinks, just like my Dutch forebears taught me.