Earlier in the week, I posted at Twitter that I was on the verge of death. Well, more specifically, that I didn't expect to see the light of day the following morning. The exact message read as follows:

Post-It: "Seal was open on one side. Inner seal still intact. If I'm dead in the morning, stay away from the turkey. Love, Rach."

I found that Post-It still attached to the turkey when I went to go make a sandwich today.

For some reason, I'm still really nervous about getting the bubonic plague or something vile from eating poisoned turkey. The sad part is, the only person whose medical judgment I actually trust these days is Dr. House, and something tells me he won't be coming to the rescue when I wake up tomorrow in desperate need of a lumbar puncture and an MRI.

One of my lovely Texas boys, Tyler F., blogs under the title of "Thursday's Child." Now, because I'm lazy, I don't generally get to know the history of a blog's title unless the person has a nifty little tab on their site for just such a thing. I just sit around in oblivion, letting my absent-mindedness take its course.

Today, however, I was browsing through Google Reader, trying not to laugh too hard (for the sake of sleeping family members) at the funny things at Overheard in New York. (I also had to restrain myself from wishing evil things upon the person who thought Boston was in Chicago.) But then, I came across this entry, which referenced "Monday's Child" in one of the suggested titles for the quote.

Hmm. If Monday and Thursday have children, then I bet the other days do, too! I thought to myself, quite impressed with my own deductive reasoning. Hurriedly, I whipped open a new tab in my browser and Googled "Monday's child." Of course, Wikipedia rushed to my aid, sharing this entry with me, which details the whole nursery rhyme.

How quaint! I thought, excited to find out what it would say about me.

But boo on you, evil poem! I was born on a Wednesday, and you don't say very nice things about me. "Wednesday's child is full of woe"?? Yeah, the "original 1887 version" says that I'm "loving and giving," but we all know THAT to be a lie, now don't we?

Now I'm truly doomed! I'll pout every time I go to Tyler's blog (at least until I absent-mindedly forget about this), which will indeed leave me "full of woe." Curses, internet!

I hereby decree that Google should read my mind, predict what will happen as a result of my future search results, and give me a page that says "Ignorance is bliss!" when it realizes that I really don't want to know the answer to my question.

So let it be written, so let it be done.

It's a miracle that more people don't die from tripping over cats.

Tonight, my brother almost came to his death on his way to get some pizza from the kitchen counter. Carmel, apparently a ninja in a former life, materialized directly underfoot just as Adam was about to take a step. Fortunately, my brother conjured the essence of Chuck Norris for a moment and swept his foot cleanly over the head of the assassin cat, regaining his balance by grabbing hold of the aforementioned counter.

The fur upon the cat's head was tousled, however, leading me to believe that Adam's leg had actually made contact. When Carmel scampered away in a hurry, I further suspected foul play on my brother's part.

"You just roundhouse kicked the cat!" I screeched.

My brother hurriedly defended himself. "I roundhoused him with my pants!" I replayed the scene in my head, and this did indeed seem plausible. Adam's baggy pants could easily have trailed over the innocent head of my beloved kitten in the course of the evasive maneuvering.

"My hamper wouldn't give me these pants earlier," he continued, eager to displace the blame. "You know the holes in the side of the hamper? They caught the button and wouldn't let go..."

He paused, obviously scarred by the memory.

"I've been having trouble with these pants."

I forgot about the cat for a moment, pondering this fact.

Perhaps it is a miracle that more people don't die from wearing pants.