I scream.

A simple thought for today.

The only thing worse than the government shutdown is finding ice in my ice cream.

Huge letdown. HUGE.

Ice cream is my husband’s and my nearly-nightly treat of choice. When it comes to scooping out the perfect serving of ice cream (more like 5) from a carton, I pride myself on my supreme excavation skills. My spoon slaloms gently up, down and around delectable frozen mountains of sweet chunks (cookie dough, brownie and the like) and detects savory areas with more precision and accuracy than NASA’s state-of-the-art equipment.

So when my husband and I finally plop our bones down on the couch for a show and some ‘scream before bed, after all is quiet in the house and the baby is bathed, read to and tucked in, and I bite into what I expect to be a smooth hunk of rich, creamy peanut butter, and it’s actually jagged, flavorless ice cracking and crunching against my molars, you can imagine the devastation. The hurt and betrayal is unmatched by anything else. It stings. Deep.

Byrne Dairy, let me just say this: I’ll forgive, but I’ll never forget.


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A followup to Friday’s post. Be ascared. Be very ascared.

So, to follow up on Friday’s post, my almost-21-month-old Kellan did in fact wake up in the middle of the night that very night.


Except it wasn’t Satie’s (short for Satan, we’re buds) raspy voice soaking into the monitor.

Instead, it was a high-pitched “Eee-yeah! Eeee-yeah!” on repeat. Kellan was swaying his head from side to side, laughing hysterically and exclaiming his abbreviated, mini-human version of “yes, that sounds amazing” over and over again.

Totally not scary, right?


Clearly my little dude was being egged on by the Big Bad Red Dude from Down Below. That’s not his normal sleeping behavior! The Evil One was probably whispering to Kellan from below his crib, telling him hilarious baby jokes about monkeys jumping off beds or promising him that he could have cookies for breakfast in the morning. All just to mess with me.

And I’m not going to lie. Obesely fat chills definitely ran down my spine when Kellan’s eery laughter jolted me awake in the middle of the night after having just dared Satan to contact me that way and “work harder” for my fear. Brilliant idea, self.

All I can say now is well done, Satie, old boy. You’ve still got it. I’d say “Encore!”, but no thank you. Move on to someone else now please. Call me with your 0 number if you need some suggestions of people to torment.

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Satan’s got my number.

Hi again, stranger.

Here we are again after a two-month hiatus. Tisk tisk.

Well, I’ve recently been told, nudged, NAGGED that I need to get back on the blogging wagon.

I won’t name any names but you know who you are, you menacing friends and family who clearly care about my writing career and me too much. *sentimental wink*

OK, I’ll oblige. After all, summer’s hectic-osity is over. I’ll no longer be held hostage in a sweaty 1980s RV every weekend.

(Not to sound ungrateful for the experience… If my father-in-law is reading this, I do honestly appreciate your lending it to us for the summer. I know my boys truly enjoyed it. I did too, the beach, the campfires, the family BBQs. I just didn’t sleep well, is all. And I’m a sleep snob. I know this. Sans my beauty sleep, I’m the beast. Rarrr. Sounds more like a lion. I’ll work on it.)

Anyway. No excuses. (Except paid writing jobs. Those take precedence.)

I’ll follow that little “I’m back” self pep talk of sorts with this tidbit, perfect for the Halloween season:

A number with all zeroes called me today. Literally all zeroes.

My iPhone was all abuzz with 000-000-0000.


Only one person could do this.

I’m convinced it was Satan.

Lucifer Q. Smith.

The antichrist.

The ole Angel of Darkness is at it again. Playing a typical prank on the unbaptised girl. Who else could pull it off? Who else would have access to such a ridiculously fake number?

Needless to say I didn’t answer and Benny Beelzebub didn’t leave a message.

If he wants to get my attention, he’s going to have to work harder than that. He’ll need to pull some Insidious shit and talk to Kellan over the intercom in demonic tongue.

Otherwise, you’re wasting your time big guy.

I was never besprinkled with God’s water as a wee child and I ain’t afraid of no ghosts.

Can you hear me now?

Can you hear me now?


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I need mental floss.

I’m a little OCD.

I was recently working on a writing project for a client where I had to perform some phone interviews. But before I could call any of my interviewees, I had to brush my teeth.

And floss.

No, I’m not kidding.

Was I showered? No. Hair combed? Nah. Wearing a bra? Probably not.

But my teeth? Sparkling clean. My breath? Mintier than a peppermint patty snatched out of the freezer. Could the people I was calling tell any of this at all whatsoever? No. Of course not.

But maybe they could sense it in my confidence. Yes, in my spot-on annunciation of every word. My I’ve-been-doing-this-forever tone. My self-assured interviewing question delivery. Pop! Pop! Pop! (That’s the sound of my question gun firing off.)

In my OCD defense, I guess I feared I might possibly mumble and back-throat gargle a few words if I thought my breath stunk. Even though, clearly, no one would be able to smell it.

You know how you do that face to face with someone? You mumble so as to not let your heinous, dead-rat-carcass inner scent escape? Or you talk with a stiff hand slanted over your mouth like a stereotypical imitation of a coy Japanese lady? In case you don’t use this technique, the rigid wall of fingers is meant to flirtingly block the stench of the foul odor released with every word. You should try it sometime. What, you think your breath don’t stink?! Yeah, I said “don’t” not “doesn’t”. This is how I talk street.

Anyway. My husband once asked me if I ate a cadaver. THAT’s the level of morning breath I’m capable of achieving on a regular basis with little effort.

Comments like that are what fuel my OCD (giving it wings to soar).

And this blog, for that matter.

This is me chewing on the leg of a cadaver. You can identify that it's me from the bangs. Sorry about the crinkled paper. Had to churn it out quickly before my kid wakes up from his nap.

This is me chewing on the leg of a cadaver. You can identify that it’s me from the bangs. Sorry about the crinkled paper. Had to churn it out quickly before my kid wakes up from his nap.

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Go PP! Feel the relief.

Oh hey. It’s been a while. I’m raring to go as a direct result.

Side-ish note: Totally thought it was spelled “rearing” as in “rearing to go” all my life. Until just now. Just googled it to be sure and damn, it seems I’ve been “rearing” my way through life thus far. Going through life ass first? Hmm, this explains a lot.

Welp. I feel like airing some pet peeves today.

Hold on to your emmer effin hats. Not really. Eh, kind of.

Holding? K.

And the brief PP list is as follows. Dot dot dot.

1. People who use this phrase: “I could care less.”

Nope, you couldn’t. It’s “I couldn’t care less.” By saying you could care less, you’re saying you do, in fact, care when the whole point of using this phrase, the whole reason this phrase was ever invented, ever spoken by God knows who, God knows when, is to say you really don’t care at all. Catch my drift? You don’t care, you’re using it incorrectly, and dammit, you sound idiotic.

And chances are, you’re reading this and you really couldn’t care less. Touché, my friend. Touché.

2. Sorbet. Sorbet pisses me right off.

Quite frankly, its very existence is an insult to my sweet tooth. I crave a fatty, creamy, rich frozen treat when I reach into the depths of my freezer late at night. One that’s going to make me feel REALLY guilty in the morning when I’m soaping up the vat from whence I ate it. (Probably not the best use of English in that sentence. Eh, I could care less. I really could though, that sentence bothers me.)

What I do NOT want is some colorful shell of a dessert with a puny caloric weight. Please. You’re all surface. A facade of deliciousness. Nothin’ to ya. Might as well suck on an ice cube. Or on the ice cube tray itself. About the same enjoyment there. Maybe even more if something good rubbed up or spilled on the tray in the freezer. Raw meat or old breast milk? Mmm. Tasty.


3. People who take more photos of scenery than people on their vacations.

No. Noooo. Please don’t do this. Just don’t. I can’t stand when people share a million photos of scenery on their vacay. No one wants to see more than two. A beautiful shore. An amazing sunset. The view from your hotel. A really weird bird eating another really weird bird. Something of historical (yawn) relevance. Choose two. That’s it. Then go ahead and take pics of the people you’re with. You know, those living, breathing human beings who are far more fascinating to record via the fine art of photography than displays at the World’s Oldest Ant Farm you visited yesterday. I mean, people like looking at other people. It’s a fact. Women like to study other women’s bodies to look for flaws and see where they accumulated any fat and men like to look at those places of fat.

It’s a simple formula. Take pics of people and other people will enjoy looking at your photos. No rocket science necessary. I don’t care if you have to take photos of strangers because the people you’re with are too boring to look at. Just. Shoot. People. (Wow. Taken out of context that sounds really bad.) Even boring people are more fun to look at than landscapes.

Ok. I’ve said my piece. I feel better already. Whew! What a relief.

Join me. I dare you. Nah. There’s nothing daring about it. It feels damn good is all.

Share your PPs with me. (I say this to Kellan, too, but it means something else referring to potty training.) And if you answer with, “This blog.”, I will cry and include you in my next set of peeves.

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Call an exterminator. For my face.

I read somewhere that this is going to be a horrible summer for ants. (I think they say this every year. Who are they and what do they know? Seriously?)

So, sure, you might have them aggresively line dancing around your sink basins. Scaling the cabinets one by one searching for points of entry and trampling over one another like big jerks when one is located. Circling the opening of your box of Cheerios in the cupboard, parachuting into the sweet goodness when the coast is declared clear and gobbling to their heart’s content.

I, on the other hand, have them in my ears. Yep. Ants in my ears. You heard correctly. Must not have any in yours. Congratulations.

You think I’m kidding? Here it goes.

Yesterday afternoon, I found an ant in my ear. Truth.

I happened to be facing the mirror, pulling my summer mane back into a pony tail when I spotted it.

The little personal-space-intruder lined herself* up with my cartilage piercing which hasn’t had a pretty stud in it in over a dozen years, and for a second I thought, when did I put that in?

*I’m sure you’re wondering how I knew it was a female ant as I referred to it as a “she”. While I am neither an ant scientist nor bug lover of any sort I am absolutely certain it was a girl ant. You think a guy ant would realize he should strategically place himself where an earring once was while attempting to burrow and look for sweets on a female human being?

Uh, no.

A guy ant would crawl right across my cheek and lose a body part on my lip and then freeze with panic and just wait for my angry, fat hand to slap him off me. Total giveaway.

This little chick did her research and knew I’d have to at least do a double take to recognize her presence if she pretended to be one of my many fashion accessories. Well played, she-ant. Brava.

Anyway, naturally I freaked and stuck a Q-tip all the way through my ear hole to my vena cava. Really far in there. Way past the legal Q-tipping limit. I went all Ringo Starr while I was in there and played a serious set on my ear drum to make sure any remaining ants vibrated their tiny asses out immediately. Fortunately, there were no others to be found.

Which kind of made me feel bad for her.

I mean, clearly she was here, putting her life on the line, trying to stake new territory to impress all of her ant friends. She could probably smell peanut butter wafting from somewhere on my body and thought, this human would be paradise for my ant farm.

Kind of like us humans colonizing Mars.

It was a big deal in the ant world and I ruined it. And since no friends or family believed in her vision, none followed her on her mission and none will even know she was squished between two fingers, her life dropped into a toilet bowl. How sad is that?

Not that sad. Like, not at all. I know.

Ants are gross.

So. I guess think twice before you compliment me on my cute, lifelike ant earrings next time you see me. That’s all I can say regarding a moral of the story here.

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Back at it.


It has been 20 days since my last post! I am clearly slacking on my selfie-blogging duties!

Oh the shame.

Let me fill you in. Provide an excuse. Offer you my apologies. Beg for your forgiveness. Bake you a cake.

Forget that last one – I suck at baking. I once inadvertently made deodorizing shoe inserts by using way too much baking soda in a cookie recipe.

Truth is, I have been tied up in home improvement projects – updating a ’70s kitchen, redesigning a mouse-family-sized bathroom, civilizing a back-woodsy back porch and gutting a squirrel-/bird-/otter-/porpoise-/probably-dinosaur-nest-infested garage. And I must admit, these DIY or DIP (“Do It, Pop” – we put my extremely handy step-dad to work big time) home improvement projects, I’m sorry, are more rewarding than blogging. Well, depending on the subject I’m blogging about. Some guiltiest of guilty pleasure/berserk venting blogs feel damn cathartic. Obviously. Or obvi, as my cool teen-nieces say.

I have also been busy pushing (politely and subtly shoving, elbowing, hip-checking) new business. And on that note, please, please, please hire Two Brunettes Design Co. to give your company a little brand pizazz, a little creativity, and most importantly, more awareness from your target audience (aka your customers, your clients, etc). Here’s a peek up our sleeves: Design. Writing. Website overhauls. Logo magic. Advertising know-how. The works. Get on it. Or let us. And again, please spread the word. Send your marketing management friends to our website. We have so much fun working with companies of all shapes and sizes from CNY to Brazil that are looking to uniquely brand and grow their businesses. Our business is Refining yours. Bam. Ok, enough preaching. Insert cute, winky emoji to balance out my pushiness.

Lastly. The sweltering hot, lazy ass days of summer are here, adding a feeling of slowly sinking into quicksand with every productivity-minded step I try to take. Plus, this year, my husband and I have rented a campsite and will be RVing it up along the shores of Lake Ontario where his family and some family friends also post up. (Cue the mental image of Uncle Eddie from National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. Shitter’s full!) Although I will likely have plenty, uh, PLENTY of blogging material from this experience, I doubt I’ll be blogging directly from said vee-hical. (Expect some funny $#!+ afterwards and in between trips, though.)

So. With this triple whammy, this anti-blogging triple threat of sorts, I honestly haven’t had much time to pop open Nellcro and hit the keyboard as they, nope, only I say.

Fear not.

I have still been jotting notes here and there as ridiculousness has occurred. And I most certainly intend to share it all with you. Every. Last. Insane. Mental breakdown. Little. Bit.

I need to hop on the hunt for a super short bathrobe for my husband to really pull this off this summer.

I need to get on the hunt for a super short bathrobe for my husband in order for us to really pull this off this summer. Send me any leads you might have. 

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Put your shirt on, old man.

Just a brief thought today. That’s all I have time for these days anyway. Kellan downgraded to one nap a day in the last week and this has shut my workday (blog) right down. Right down to China Town.

Such is life as a WAHM. Work at Home Mom for those of you with as shotty a memory as mine.

This blog post comes from a note called “Old men with no shirts.” That was my reminder to myself. Tim peeked over my shoulder and saw it written on my Blog Note and chuckled.

Tim: Oh boy. The hell are you going with that one?

Me: Uh, I’m going somewhere funny. And your chuckle just reaffirmed that. Overdramatic sigh.

So. Onward and upward. (Downward, spiraling downward. Right into hell. Right onto Satan’s barbwire lap as a matter of fact.) While running to get groceries this past Sunday, Kellan and I drove by a couple old guys chatting at the end of a driveway.

Normally, this would not be enough to inspire a blog post.

Welp, it was this time.

You see, while the one dude was dressed as dapper as can be (ok, he was just wearing shorts and a teeshirt but whatever. Dapper is a fun word to say. Er, type.), his conversee (not a word) was not. Yes, he had pants on but he had no shirt. What he DID have was two gigantic man boobs. Too Mount Vesuviuses hanging so uncomfortably full and low-slung that they looked like they were about to erupt and spew volcanic lava all over his croc feet.

You can imagine how disturbing a visual this was.

I had planned on making eggplant parm for dinner, too, but couldn’t bring myself to touch the swollen, purple tube veggie once we got to the store.

So my thought is this. The sight of a fat old man without a shirt is just as shocking as an old topless woman. It should be frowned upon greatly and/or banned in our society.

Perhaps if an old geezer is thinking he’d like to go shirtless in public (this includes his own yard if there is a road/sidewalk/neighbor’s house/neighbor’s doghouse within sight), a special division of the police can pay him a visit with their measuring tape. If his man boobs droop past a certain level, he will not be able to go topless outside of his house without a hefty fine. If his front lobes meet the measurement requirements, he will indeed be allowed to enjoy the sun on his back. Simple as that. There’s your remedy. Ok, my remedy.

I mean, frankly, this guy’s hanging chest this past weekend was obscene. I’m pretty sure Kellan will never be the same (and I know I never will be). My poor baby boy’s innocence was stolen, ripped out of his infant hands by a bare chested man beast.

Naturally, I want to make sure this will never happen again to any other children in our community!

Are you with me?!

Here is an accurate depiction of the old shirtless bandit we saw. Courtesy of Kellan and me.

Here is an accurate depiction of the old shirtless bandit we saw. Courtesy of Kellan and me. Yeah, he’s up from his nap. Already.

My drawing helper. Gotta love his get-up. And the lack of pants. He's still young enough to get away with a lack of clothing. Oh gad, am I raising a future shirtless old man???
My drawing helper. Gotta love his get-up, sweatband and all. And the lack of pants. He’s still young enough to get away with a lack of clothing. Oh gad, am I raising a future shirtless old man???

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WE are those Walmart People.

Yep, we’re the Walmart People you see ridiculous photos of online and such. That’s us.

Let’s set the scene. Picture Kellan and me shuffling through the automatic doors of Walmart looking like the following:

Covered in sidewalk chalk. I had sidewalk chalk all over my – you guessed it – yoga pants. They weren’t my usual black ones – I switched into my summer yogers: capri-style and a deep grey! A lovely canvas for the fluorescent pink, white and orange chalkings. Especially on my rumpus. Of course I sat on the section of sidewalk where I drew. Not where Kellan drew, but where Mommy did. Kellan has no interest in drawing with the chalk, you see. He’d rather A. Eat it. B. Throw multiple pieces down and step on them like he’s rollerblading (thus falling over) and C. Whisk the contents of the dog’s water bowl with it.

So I was sporting “I *heart-symbol* Dada” on my ass in chalk. Better than “Yum” or whatever the young girls are wearing these days. Victoria’s Secret should make a mom line. Maybe Call it Real Moms. I’m thinking ones with “Sag”, “Dump” or “Dimple” on them. Maybe just “Dimp” if “Dimple” is too long. More realistic, you know? Anyway, I had homemade ones on accompanied by a well-loved sweatshirt with ripped cuffs and strings a danglin’.

Now onto Kellan’s wardrobe. He was wearing a long-sleeved “white” polo on with the collar popped for neck sun coverage (thank you, again, doc, for furthering my sun/skin paranoia) with orange chalk marks covering his belly. Basically a white and orange tie dyed polo. The chalk made it look like he had been chowing on cheesedoodles or some other nonfood item, another Walmart People staple. What’s for dinner? Meal o’ Cheesedoodle.

To top off our look, Kellan and I were both soaked in various places from him pouring the water out of his pal onto himself right before we hopped in the car to hit up Wally World.  (I had filled a pal with water for him to play with outdoors and swirl his chalk into so that he’d leave the dog’s water alone.) I was hoping he’d dry out on the way. 70s, sunny. That’s car ride pants-drying weather. Not so much. My hip, his in-store transportation, thus also became soaked as we ambled around the aisles.

Last but not least. When Kellan picked out some new summer beach-going sneaker sandal things, I let him wear them because I felt bad that his feet were so sweaty in the Air Jordans he wore in. Making us even more Walmarty. My kid schlepping along in the not-yet-paid-for-merch with the tag hanging off them, causing a limp, kind of like Jacob Marley in his shackles.

So yeah. This was today’s realization. Maybe Walmart People are actually somewhat normal and just caught on camera in their ugliest of moments. Like us. Wrongly accused of being social misfits.

Then again. Maybe not.

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An apple a day doesn’t do $#!+.

As the old adage goes, “An apple a day keeps the doctor away.”

Well, not for babies who have checkups scheduled for what seems like every other day for the first two years of their lives. Can we just set up a tent in the waiting room at the pediatrician’s office? We need a bunk-in option if that’s available, please.

Kellan had his 15 month “well baby” doctor appointment the other day and I felt like the doctor was more interested in poking and prodding me than him. Poking and prodding with her words, that is. And her angry caterpillar brows.

I like her, I do, but I wasn’t prepared for her hidden surveillance camera eyes. And my mom (who accompanied me to the appointment) and I on the way even studied our child rearing notes and pop quizzed each other on the words and sounds and movements he’s been making to be able to rattle them off to her during her drill sergeant portion of the exam.

It didn’t matter. Our preparation meant squat. Halfway through the appointment, after I was calling off orders to Kellan dance, monkey, dance! to show her his development and illustrate his abnormally-high-IQ-Steve-Jobs-brilliance (kidding, typical mom thing to say, right?), she started in with the “Hmm, OK, I’ve noticed”s. As in, “Hmm, OK, I’ve noticed you saying ‘no’ to him. I prefer ‘uh oh’ when a child does something he or she shouldn’t.”

Oh really? OK, cool, well, I prefer NO and I’m his mom. So I guess there goes that argument, right? Is he all set with his shots now, bitch, because we’re leaving. Thanks!

Reprimanding him with a gentle “uh oh” to me makes it sound like it was an accident when his tiny, clenched fist punched Moe The Bulldog in the butt. It wasn’t. (Kellan loves Moe’s butt. He’s deeply intrigued by Moe’s tightly wound, cinnamon bun swirl tail. I try to keep his wandering mini-hotdog fingers above the tail. My efforts do not always prove successful.) A firm “NO no punch” sends the message I’m looking to portray. Did Moe have it coming to him? Most likely. His 60 pounds of wagging flesh have swiped the baby right off his meatloaf feet at near-concussion speeds several times since Kellan started walking. So yeah, a few munchkin punches might have been in order. But that’s [somewhat] besides the point.

During the appointment, the doc also shushed me. Hard.

I was bouncing Kellan on my lap in an attempt to distract him from the stethoscope clamping to and burrowing in his chest like an ice cold leech when I remembered another question I had for her. “Should I be concerned about the…” SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. *Finger tapping my forearm as if the urgent gush of hot, wintergreen-gum-covering-tuna-and-not-covering-it-all-that-well air escaping her mouth wasn’t enough to get the point across and make me shut up.

I get it. When you work with kids all day everyday you start to talk to just about everyone you encounter like they, too, are kids. I don’t take offense to that. I just make a mental note not to do it myself. I spend a lot of time alone with Kellan all day everyday but I make sure to use my big girl words when another adult enters my world. You know, like, “Mommy go potty, kaayyy?” when Tim comes home from work, opening the front door and bellowing to ask where I am.

And while we’re on this train of thought, why why WHY do all of our sentences start with “Mommy” instead of “I”? It’s frightening. An epidemic. “Mommy do this” and “Mommy do that.” What the what? Kellan knows I’m his mommy, why must every previously “I” sentence begin with “Mommy”? My identity has been sabotaged by this kid. And I let it happen. I’m the enabler. I’ve been sucked into Auto Mommy Do Mode. Do dads do this? “Dada get you a ball.” Maybe? I’m going to pay attention and see if my husband falls prey to this same habit. I have a feeling it’s more mommy-centric. We’re freaks. But what else is new. (Don’t answer. This is my blog and that’s a rhetorical question. Notice how I didn’t even use a question mark.)

Anyway, to get back to the dreaded doctor visit, she also made it sound like we keep Kellan outdoors like a dog or an indentured servant of some third world country. (I hope that’s P.C. It could be the start of another Nellism. Keir? Thoughts?) She said, “I see he already has some color from being outdoors. His skin needs to be protected – it’s clearly very sensitive.” Oh, it is? I usually just chain him up with one of Moe’s collars and leash him to the garage during the day in nothing but a diaper under the blistering sun. He likes it. Gotta toughen that skin up so it doesn’t burn anymore, doc, come on. Ever heard of a base tan? Zoom Tan will only let us go once a day so I have to do it this way.

Really, this child wears everything but a black knit face-mask when my mom or I take him out to play. It doesn’t matter if it’s 85 and humid. He wears a long sleeve hoodie, long pants, knee socks and sneakers. He wears long underwear underneath it all plus a baseball hat with earmuffs over top and wood-shop goggles. Every square inch of him is slathered in sunscreen if we’re out in peak sun hours. I use a roller and paint the sunscreen on him, right over his layers of clothing and up into his nostrils in case he breathes in the rays of sun. I also dance around him holding a beach umbrella several inches from his head to cover his every move, just to be sure.

Maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but, suffice it to say, I’m very careful about protecting Kellan’s skin from burning. But. Thank you for the jab anyway, doc.

I could go on and on. And on. This appointment was full of funny [annoying, condescending] incidents.

One last one: The doc mentioned how no matter how hard Kellan yanked on his penis, it would never fall off. Contrary to what I might be thinking. (Keep in mind on this one, she brought it up. Out of the blue. I said nothing, as frankly, Kellan’s more interested in playing with the hunks of mold peeking out from crevices around our tub than pulling on his privates. Most times his buddha belly hides it anyway.) Either way, thank you for that very important Anatomy/Life Fact, doc. That was totally keeping me up at night – worrying his family jewels might separate from his body after a good, hard tug and drop off into the bathtub. I just figured if that indeed happened, it’d grow back like the tail on a gerbil. Or he’d become a girl. Fortunately, his name works for either gender. One step ahead of you, doc. *followed by an ignorant, backwoods hillbilly chuckle, a la Goofy

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