It was four years ago the last time I had sex in a swimming pool. Yes, it was a private pool but the house had no fence and so any keen observer driving on the road - with great eyesight - could have seen what was going on.

And let me tell you, sex in a swimming pool is not at all grand. You have to keep moving because the water gets cold; you can’t feel anything because the water is so frigid; and let’s not forget the potential to acquire sunburn in sensitive places.

Chlorine = mood killer.

But, see, I now know I’m old because I was with my daughters at the neighbourhood pool this afternoon, and we were having a lovely game of water H-O-R-S-E, until this young couple arrived. He had hair like a 1980s Michael Jackson, and she had huge boobs and was about two kilograms from being imprisoned by the Fashion Police for wearing a bikini with a body that - how can I say this tactfully? - … had a too much flesh and too little covering it up.

From behind the protection of my sunglasses, I was about to make a brilliant R move, and then furtively shot Michael and Boobs a glance, and then did a double-take because I realised they were HAVING SEX in the pool in the same water that CHILDREN WERE SWIMMING and I didn’t know whether to interrupt them and suggest they wait until we were gone, or just berate them for being stupid idiots.

I hoped they would understood why I pulled my sunnies off and shot dirty looks their way, but he was too engrossed in blowing water bubbles into her boobs and kept going.

And so we left.

In my real-life job, I plan events. Although I lie and say I’m a project manager, the truth is I’m basically hired to be someone’s bitch to see things are done because they (the powers) change their mind at the last minute.  

Like tomorrow, there’s a corporate event I’ve planned for two months.

Two days ago I was informed the senior management wanted a trivia game - Family Feud style - and also want customised trophies for the winners.

After polling the staff for the Family Feud style questions, I became extremely concerned at the level of intelligence of these people. (And yes, I admit it was only a few days ago when I explaining what a log cabin ride was at the water park, until I was asked if the log cabin ride had anything to do with Little House on the Prairie or was perhaps just a log ride.)

So, chalk one idiot moment up for me.

But these guys are really stupid.

Name a popular cable television channel.

“Channel 6.” [Local station.]

“The Closer.” [Cable show.]

“FOX.” [National network.]

Name a household pet.

“Lucy.” [Dog?]

“Sadie.” [Cat?]

“My fish, Nemo.” [Half a point.]

Name a television show from the 80s.

“That 70s Show.” [No comment.]

My dad’s health is declining due to extreme kidney failure. 

Considering I have two fresh and nubile kidneys, I extended to my dad the offer of one of mine - and even volunteered my brother’s - just in case the distance from the US to Australia was a factor or kidney’s need to go from man to man or woman to woman.

Dad politely declined, explaining that as an old bastard with weak lungs, his body can’t handle anaesthesia. Then he said, “If it comes down to having dialysis, I told the doctor and I’m telling you now, I want to be able to just… go.”

I paused, waiting for him to shout ‘psych’ or decide that very moment would be his debut of reciting Wayne’s World quotes and say ‘not!’, but he didn’t. “And listen, I put something in the mail for you. You’ll get it in a week.”

I was thinking it might have been family photos. Once he sent floppy disks from 1994 that were marked with my name and school assignments. (I mean, seriously, when he cleans out junk and thinks I want it, he mails it. Last year in Australia he gave me a bag of used 35mm camera film, just assuming I would want to develop the film and re-live the spectacularly bad hair moments that were part of my teenage rebellion.) Honestly though, I was hoping for a check with a REALLY LARGE amount of money from some top-secret savings account, and Dad was waiting patiently until I matured… or turned thirty. 

No photos, no junk, no check. It was none of those things.

I left the post office the other day and didn’t even make it to the car before I crudely ripped the tape from the package. Peeking in, I simultaneously laughed and cried, shaking my head because he - the man who writes letters in third person - sent the one thing that is worthless to everyone but him and me.

You see, I always wanted to know more about my mother’s family, but asking questions about your dead mother tends to make your grandmother or aunt or cousin sad, and there’s nothing worse than being a kid and merely wanting to know if your dead mum liked beetroot without grown-ups bursting into tears. 

But my dad’s family was different, because there was this red binder  - only ever brought out if my dad was strangely in a good mood - and his beloved binder listed every detail of the family history, from births where the presenting midwife was drunk, to the crudely-detailed death of my great-grandfather who was gored to death by a bull. Anything and everything was listed, and I hope this little comparison shows you how prized the binder was to my dad: he lost my mother’s ashes when we moved in 1982, but by golly, the red binder survived the arduous two-hour trek to western Sydney. Binder equals Big Deal.

The binder wasn’t just family stories and newspaper clippings, though. Tucked in a corner pocket was a giant piece of paper listing the lineage of my paternal family. It was my personal Book of Kells, Declaration of Independence, and Magna Carta: it was history and an explanation to a group where I belonged, and as a motherless child, I often didn’t have that sense of security.

But not with this aged piece of yellow, brittle parchment.  Whenever my dad allowed me, I would ever-so-carefully unfold the paper, lay on the floor and … just stare. 

And now he’s given it to me.

Serving dog in Beijing has now been suspended upon request of the Beijing Olympics Committee.

I can’t help but wonder … what has the world come to deny tourists the delicacy of dog?   Besides fried rice, doesn’t every tourist want hot dogs in China? 

As a matter of personal preference and weak stomach and ineptitutde at foreign languages, I simply bypass China in my travels. Great Wall aside, I imagine I’d fumble with my language book and - unbenowst to me - order a Big Dog instead of a Big Mac at the local Macca’s.

It’s a risk I can’t take.

You see, eating dog falls outside of my solomn oath to purchase meat neatly packaged on styrofoam trays and has been artistically arranged so any resemblance to the animal’s live form is gone. It’s then that I can eat meat, pretending that I’m eating oddly-textured Play Doh.

Now here is where I get all Charleton Heston in The Ten Commandments, wield a huge staff and try to speak in a booming voice to declare to the people…that a precedence has been set and  IT WILL ONLY BE A MATTER OF TIME before the following delicious national morsels will be banned entirely.

• Haggis in Scotland
• Escargot in France
• Durian in Thailand
• Lutefisk in Sweden
• Maple syrup in Canada
• Wienerschnitzel in Germany
• Dried-out Sunday roast with lumpy gravy in England
• Vegetables in the United States, and
• … Vegemite in Australia!

You have been warned.

Meeting adjourned.

The mission: I can’t make up my mind where to go, and can only pick one. Dates are not flexible. One or two night stay at either place. My friend Heather is en-route, backpacking through Canada as I speak write, waiting for me to decide if I’ll meet her in Chicago or Washington DC.

Chicago. DC. Chicago. DC.

The benefit to Chicago is that I was there a few weeks ago, and there was such chaos walking down Michigan Avenue that I mentally composed a letter to the mayor explaining Chicago would be more favoured by me and other organisational freaks if there was clearly defined “this side” usage of the footpath, and the mayor should be thankful for me sparing him photos of my thighs with scrapes and slashes caused by people with Antarctica-sized shopping bags… (I mean, seriously, aren’t they having the Olympics or something? This is a serious issue that needs to be addressed.)

I also sort of know how to get around Chicago, and the show, Wicked, is closing in January and I desperately want to see it again, because last time my seats were four rows from the back and I would like to see the actors’ faces without having to wield my bird-watching binoculars in the Ford Theatre.

The benefit to DC is… err… DC Chick is there and we could have Naked Twister Fan Club 2008. Oh, but apparently there’s also a lot of American history (’really?’ you say in your best mocking tone, ‘I never would have expected that from a place known as the nation’s flipping capitol’) and they have SEGWAY TOURS (!!!) and nothing excites me more than rolling around and doing touristy things without having to… like… walk. Jay told me that his brother’s neighbour’s boss went to DC for a conference and evening news was more like the evening update on how many murders had occurred in the city.

Help me. What would you do?

PS. Chicago also has Segway Tours, but I may be stuck with a bunch of Aussies taking over an Irish pub, and drunken Segwaying is prohibited.

Some call white skin porcelain, but - with the exception of my freckles, I admit porcelain really just means dead-white, glow-in-the-dark, mayonnaise-coloured skin.  

When I was a teen I prayed that God would give me so many freckles on my face and shoulders they would bump their dots to each other and - voila! - I wouldn’t look like a freshly dead corpse.

The stupidity hasn’t changed, but, heh, my income is different as I am the owner of the largest amount of personal tan products that all turn me Oompa Loompa orange.

Habits die hard, so the other week then I bought a product that was recommended which … holy crap… worked.

It turned me a nice shade of California brown.. although, well, I kind of didn’t apply it right in areas, and I know I’m going to hell for this, but I told a little fib to inquisitive colleagues that I have rather large birthmarks in stripes on the underside of my arms and around my ankles that simply can’t tan.

I’m sitting at a café stealing wi-fi and overhear college girls talk about their boyfriends.

I know men have a preference for their junk to be adjusted in order of bean/frank/bean or bean/bean/frank, however I have never asked a man if he is BFB or BBF or FBB.

But after studying images of Australian Rules Football men, I realise there must be a Secret Man Rule passed through generations - or footy clubs - on how to pack the beans’n’franks to create the illusion of size, whilst ensuring their gazillion football-carrying DNA are proportionately protected.

Because I’m shy and all virtuous, I can’t ask a guy out unless I have overwhemlingly convincing evidence – like a brick in the face – he’s interested, so I make sly hints of things to do together, like,  “Tom, I need a pedicure. Will you go with me?”

Tom is a 25-year-old brainaic who is taller than me and can make his pecs dance, and I have a crush on him because of the former and not the latter. I know he’s too young and never been married, but I assure you we have a lot in common… like… we’re both big fans of Tété and … err… we’re tall.

“Are you serious?” he writes back. “I’m metro, but not that metro. But… if Jay goes, I’ll go too.”

Jay’s a bit of a natureboy; his kayak is permanently attached to his SUV and yeah, the vehicle interior always smells like a tackle box. His wife is as pathetically wonderful as Jay, and the two of them are poster children for finding happiness on eHarmony.

But Jay will try anything once.

And that’s how I became the meat in the pedicure threesome.

The average person attends eight therapy sessions before feeling healthy to move on with life.

I used to think those people were too cheap to recognise they had such serious and delusional issues that only eight sessions were needed to kiss the boo-boo’s and go on their merry, happy, ‘I don’t need therapy’ flippant way.

Me? I’ve spent most of my life in a therapists office, crying and emptying enough boxes of cheap tissues for all starving children in Africa to blow their noses at least once, realised I was jealous, and promptly added jealousy to the list of things to discuss at my next session.  

Until now.

In all of my recent pseudo-relationships, I spent time idly waiting for the Chris Factor: the precise moment where I felt uncomfortable and would either belliger the guy and practically demand he prove himself, or shut down emotionally as soon as I felt my defenses weak and that he knew enough to hurt me. And then he’d end it or I would ignore him, and it would be over.

That… see that? That’s PROGRESS! CHANGE!

(And because brevity is not my strongpoint, if you don’t know my embarrassing history of how I troddled from Miss Low-Self Esteem to… err… now, click here.)

I said to my therapist the other day, “I don’t know what’s better - to be the completely naive and trusting Eileen from before, or the hardened and cynical Eileen now.”

“I admit,” he chuckled and then his tone grew serious, “you have a PhD in relationship sabotage.  You destroy relationships lightyears before there are signs of failure or progress… even before you’re in a relationship.”

And for the first time in years, I walked out of therapy less confused than the hour prior which was good timing, too, because today I received a message through MySpace from someone with a privage page; no name or town, just a man who lives in my state, claims his age is 31, and has a weird quote that lacks proper punctuation.

May I have your email address; I have some things I would like to get off my chest. A simple response with your email will suffice.

And yeah, even before I replied and asked who he was, I knew it was Chris.

Emma - my eldest - stays at home by herself one day a week when I’m at work. She has access to the Intarweb and likes to play Webkinz and look at the weather and email her cousins in Australia. All relatively harmless things because she knows I can remote to my home PC from the office and block her computer access entirely.

She’s also old enough for us to have sort-of candid talks about relationships.  As a rule, my children don’t meet anyone I date, but know they are around. The worst thing is that Emma desperately wants a stepdad and while I try to remind her - how women’s lib - ‘I don’t need a man and I’m not ready for a relationship and if and when I am it will be a considerable amount of time before you will meet him’, she just doesn’t quite get it. Her dad went from our marriage - literally - into his relationship with the Unofficial StepMonster. 

Perhaps I should divert Em’s attention, encourage her to have a career in international espionage, and stop threatening her with military school. She has this inherant ability to listen through plastered walls and hear my end of phone calls and recount them with almost seventy-percent accuracy. She then asks very pointed questions afterward about details of my life.

So, imagine my embarrassment when I get an email at work from Midnight, explaining Em contacted him by instant messanger after she heard a thunderstorm warning announcment on the local television station. Apparently from England he has the ability to hoist a rather large umbrella over our city, or contact the person who spins the weatherdial from sunny to rainy to thunderstorming to cats’n'freaking dogs.

That was like, level six embarrassment on a scale of one-to-ten.

I figured no-harm, no-foul; Em and I talked and I explained how it was completely inappropriate for her to communicate with people from the web she didn’t know, in addition to a more in-depth description of sexual predators and What They Do To Young Girls.

When I arrived home that afternoon I learned she also instant messaged HeathBar, the guy with the combover I had successfully ignored. After hurtling myself across the room to read the chat history, level six embarrassment gave way to … errr… level FIFTY GAZILLION as my entire body blushed for hours.

***

Read the rest of this entry »

The Wheel of Death sounds like it should be on a fun game show in the 5pm hour, with big flashing lights and a host wearing a poly-blend suit. I imagine the wheel having options, like, “call your parents and tell them you were in porn and the movie is now the number one video on the Hot Porno Movie charts”, or basically. anything where the thought ‘I’d rather die’ comes to mind. (Men with uncircumcised penises rank high on my I’d Rather Die list, with doing my father’s laundry a close second.)

When Suz and I were at lunch, I had to break out the Wheel of Death. It’s where I go completely colossal on friends for being idiotically stupid, and in her case it was for having sex with a man she barely knew, in addition to making herself look absolutely completely desperate. And I have the right to go Wheel of Death on her because she has gone Wheel of Death on me,  but there was a specific vendetta because Immature Eileen wanted to remind Suz she given me the same advice when I trying to get over CJ’s sperm donor.

And then because I immediately regretted being Immature Eileen and wondered if I pushed Suz to being suicidal mere days before a three-day weekend, I touted her with compliments.  You see, If I were to show you Suz’s picture, you would agree how gorgeous she is, especially with her blindingly white and straight teeth, and If I were a guy, I’d want her just because of her dedication to dental hygiene, not for her boobs or figure or brain. Just her teeth.

“Suz, you’re gorgeous. You’re smart; you have a full time job, a house. You have a great smile and perfect teeth. You even have a cute nose, and it sickens me you have a deviated septum and you’re going to get a nose job and have an even cuter nose. You make me ill.”

“It’s his birthday on Friday –”

“– No! Would he remember your birthday?”

Point taken.

***

I had a meeting with Carrie later that day, updating her on the whole Suz issue, because secrets with me are like an incontinent woman who is wearing a sanitary napkin yet defiantly drinks a two litre bottle of Diet Coke. (e.g. Once it’s out, it’s going to get everywhere.)

“He’s totally got her number,” Carrie said. I nodded, clicked my pen a few times as I  mentally debated telling Carrie the rest, then realised I already shared all the juicy details and it wouldn’t hurt to share a few more.

I apologetically shrugged and admitted, “I did the Wheel of Death on her.”

Carrie - bless her - made me feel a little better for slamming Suz into the ground and calling her a pathetic bitch forty times in seventy minutes. “Everyone needs a Wheel of Death friend in their life.”

***

Long tangent aside… this is the point I was ultimately attempting to make: I missed you; I missed this. Whatever it was, whatever I went through that was mundane or slightly above mundane, I wanted to share with you. There are some of you - ahem! - that see through my BS and call me on my snarkiness. So, for that, I thank you being my invisible (and some not-so-invisible) Wheel of Death friends.

Please, don’t stop.

Suz and me, we’ve had a bit of a rough year. It started when I had a small crush on a guy she was dating, and then would fantasise myself to sleep that they would break up and he and I would begin this hot, secret, steamy and tawdry affair.

Oh, the affair would end, of course. I should say it’s because I subscribe to the ho’s before bro’s theory, but really, it’s because every woman secretly wants their life to be a bit like the pages of a Mills & Boon, have great sex and be empowerd enough to kick the guy to the curb. (And also have pert perky breasts that have nourished children but not suffered such mammary abuse that the owner of said breasts watches documentaries on primitive Amazonian tribeswoman and enviously stares at Amazonian bosoms and wonders if for a nanosecond that the secret to pert breasts is to splice the lower lip with a hole so big it could fit an egg, before realising holes in lips and pertness of breasts have nothing in common.)

I digress.

Suz and I had lunch today, and I sort of gleefully admit that Suz is where I was - relationship-wise - three-years ago, and because I have been a slack non-blogging bitch I shall attempt to give you Cliff Notes to catch you up.

They meet. Instant physical attraction. She likes him, doesn’t like his teeth, likes his hands and suspects he has a big penis. She clues him into the fact that she thinks they could have great sex, he wants to wait until they get to know each other. She asked him what he’s doing next Friday; he has plans. Her internal remote control clicked to the Bullshit Channel and started airing the latest ep on Female Intuition. He’s gone cold. She starts asking questions and demanding to know what’s wrong, because they are obviously rational adults and capable of communicating. Bzzt.  He clams up, doesn’t respond to texts. Upon return says he was on a fishing trip (”Ha! Fishing trip?”, scoffs an unnamed blogger with intimacy issues, “…He was fucking other women!”). A week goes by and she texts him stating they could have had great sex while she was on other lousy dates; he apologizes. She waits another week, repeats the message; he asks her over. They have great sex “although his penis required so much manscaping a woman could have gotten lost”. She emails him the day after and gets no response, because it’s not like he’s going to say, “Thanks, you saved me from scouting for a piece of arse on Missed Connections and having to drive and get it. Have you seen the cost of gas lately?”

Which brings us to present day.  

To be continued…

(PS. I assure you… there is a point to this.)

(PPS. Yes, I’m back.)

This is up for 24-hours, a link to a podcast of me calling a local radio show. It’s nothing thrilling, just a comedian I’m a fan of that was a guest of the show, combined with a discussion on the deliciousness of Vegemite.

It’s moments like these - listening back - where I want to hire a professional speech therapist and get rid of my lisp.

I start talking around the 12-minute mark.

Miss you all. XOXO.

-Me

Update: Link removed

It hurts when my favourite bloggers stop blogging, and only bloggers can explain the bizarre sense of loss that somehow crosses fiber optics and leaps into the heart.

I need to explain this isn’t the end, it’s just that we need a break. It’s not you, it’s me. I need to work on myself. <Insert your personal favourite random cliche here.>

I love sharing the randomness of my life with you, but, honestly it’s just one of those things where my non-electronic life has become embarrassingly overwhelming and I don’t do well with stress and spazz out and mentally shut down and clam up as my coping mechanism. (See how much I love you? I’m treating you as if we were married.)

That’s not to say I won’t continue reading your blogs, but to spare myself the embarrassing pain of turning into a Mummy-blogger and writing about the unfortunate angst of raising a tween who is this close to “becoming a woman”, the thrilling rollercoaster known in circles as Three-Year-Old Tantrums 101, and how-to guides where I mold a penis from leftover slivers of old soap bars… this blog is - indefinitely - on pause.

xoxo
Eileen

It was something about a hospital and his motorcycle and pain, and it’s really kind of hard to get the sense of urgency when one has a thick accent and sarcasm and humour and seriousness all sound similar with minute variations of inflections between the three.

It was him, you know, the one where he did this and we did that.

It literally took minutes for me to figure out he was saying I’M IN THE HOSPITAL BECAUSE I WAS HIT BY A DRUNK DRIVER RIDING MY MOTORCYCLE, YOU BLEEDING MORON because I was all, “Oh, you got your motorcycle license? That’s cool” and “Weird, we haven’t talked in months” and “You were hit by a drunk driver? Really? When did this happen?”

I walked into his hospital room in record time and tried to not grimace at the sight: beaten and bruised head, scratches and gashes and burns. I learned his laptop - which was strapped to his back - helped protect his back but suffered a sad demise. He had been in surgery to, well, it’s gross, but fix and repair him because skin and flesh were gone and tendons were exposed on his legs.

He looked awful and had an IV dripping happy medicine into his veins. And I restrained myself from demanding to know why he called me out of all his local contacts.

He must have sensed when I shifted that I was slightly uncomfortable that he invited himself so quick in my personal space. There were photos, you see, I assume of his children but felt it inappropriate to ask.

“Trust me,” he laughed. “I’m a professional.”

I replied, and nodded. “I know. You came highly recommended.”

We locked eyes and he never let them go. He took his time; his voice soothing, comfortable, warm… assuring me he knew what he was doing.

I don’t know how but he was talking softly, almost whispering, and it was his cologne and lips and they were so close to mine that I felt the electricity and went into a complete sensory overdose.

And then I felt something… different.

When the opportunity arose I furtively looked down to confirm it was him, and my bent knee was tucked between the V of his legs. A rub? A hard graze? I don’t know, he just kept… moving.

Fifteen minutes later it was over and I was relieved, quickly making my payment.

And when I left the optometrists being diagnosed of astigmatism, I mourned the loss of my knee’s virginity.

I’m working from home for two days with CJ, attempting to not drink myself into a vodka-stupor and also not tear my hair out because I have a complex I’m - ahem - thinning out up top and G-d forbid it’s too much for one person to bear the issues and resentment which I suffer as well as be bald.

And oh, my delightful son. You should know I enjoy being on a conference call with a client whilst the fruit of my loins yabbers “I talk! I talk! I talk!” as I frantically perform artistic maneuvers with my legs and arms to muffle him. (Oh, and those particular moves give me the brilliant idea I have special talents that Cirque du Soleil could utilise in an upcoming show.)

Finally he quiets down. Then runs away and comes back, only this time he’s brandishing a kitchen mallet and wooden spoon and other odds and ends but it doesn’t matter as he’s playing all nice and quiet except for the flinging of the mallet against an old light-switch cover.

And then - while temporarily in a spreadsheet reverie - I pay attention to him… oh, look, he is counting down in his brilliant way with “10, 11, 12, 15, 20, BLAST OFF!!!“

I look at the missile now flung around the room, while the kid makes WHOOSH WHOOSH VROOM sounds.

It’s an old (hasn’t been used in ages) personal toy now given new life as a rocket blaster.

Either I have an engineer in the making or this is Reason #872 why he will need therapy as an adult.

Back from his jaunt around Asia, my brother is still engaged to the whore HeaveSet and has now not seen his children in - oh - three months. He emailed me one of those obnoxiously nauseating email forwards about death and destruction and bible study… and the email also includes HeaveSet’s email address also listed in the to section.

Do you see where I’m going with this?

I just wonder how I can politely introduce myself and say “I know you’re fucking my brother, but see, he kind of spent six-grand on a hooker while still married to his wife. Oh wait. He’s still married. The hooker is demanding payment. Can you give me your address so I can send her your way?”

I’ve joked many-a-time about suffering from ADD, only because it’s oh-ha-ha funny about my desire and unwillingness to pay attention to detail, and exceptional knack of shirking off from work because I’m lost in the precise reporting details of more important things, like, catching up on the reading of my favourite online gossip rags.

Until yesterday.

You see, for the past month I’ve been on this medicine that can only be described as something similar to FDA-approved speed. Half at breakfast, half at lunch, and then it’s go-go-go where I’m wide awake and super-productive and scrubbing baseboards and writing checks for bills for the next six months until I realise it’s two in the morning and perhaps I should go to bed but gee I’m not tired so just a little more closet-organisation oh crap it’s now five in the morning okay I’ll get one hour of sleep and then HONK! HONK! HONK! off goes the alarm so I pop another little pill and live the same go-go-go day again.

With FDASpeed your physician can only prescribe it in monthly doses, so yesterday I schlepped to the doctor’s on a bit of a downer because my prescription ran out over the weekend and I was on day three without any pep.

“So, Doc, I’ve lost fourteen pounds in one month because I’m never hungry and too busy to eat but really, my jeans fit so much better and even when I’m a PMSing raging bitch I’m not visualizing sticking my head in a vat of ice-cream nor ripping the heads off people who talk too loud at work. Oh, and speaking of work, I’m super-productive and am like the Michael Jordan of my team, because dude, I am so in the zone and like, I’d be shooting three-pointers because I’m like the fucking MVP of project management! Fricking awesome!”

“You’re productive? At work? And you weren’t before?”

“Yeah, it was really weird. Instead of thinking, ‘ugh, I don’t want to do this today’, I have been knocking everything out and I have my annual review on Friday and I tell you, I am kicking freaking arse!”

“You do realise FDASpeed is a stimulant, right…?”

… something something something, she continued, talk talk talk…

“So, I’m going to put in the computer that your official diagnosis is ADD.”

The little turd escaped from the stroller at the mall, and just as I started to wash my hands, he ran down to the stalls and stuck his head under a door, inquisitive into the world of strangers and what they do when they are behind a closed door and alone with a loo.

“What the heck!?” he yelled after taking a peek. (It’s his new saying; he also wrinkles his face when he says it as if he’s perplexed.) “Mummy, Mummy! He [she] has a mush-tash!”