"Oh, my god, I've just discovered on-line shopping," said my sister Roz. No, not 5 years ago, this morning.
"Be careful, it's addictive," I warned her. Nobody - I mean, nobody - can get more worked up over a pair of darling boots from Zappos or Aldo then I can. Nobody.
"I was actually cheering for myself when I clicked 'add to cart'," said my moronic sister. Well, it's not like rescuing men from a mine shaft after 3 months, but it is a step in the right direction.
Roz works at home, like I do. We must carefully plan our fun. She is now going to stare out her front window waiting for the Canpar truck.
I finally made Christer get up. He's been job hunting, though not very effectively if you ask me. Anyway. I barked at him, and started heading down the stairs.
"Wait! Mom! I had an awful dream," he told me. He stood in the hallway in his shorts, eyes wide, hair on standing on end.
"No, it' wasn't a dream. You really did get a bad haircut," I told him.
"No! Wait! I was in this room, and S Club 7 was there."
Okay, S Club 7 was a British teenage group. 7 boys and girls, late teens, put out pop records and had a bad TV show the kids used to watch a decade ago. That's the only reason I knew who they were.
"So, S Club 7 was there, and they were like, having an orgy." I stared at my son. Why do kids think parents want to know these things?
"No, no, I wasn't in it. I was, like, the director." Oh, much better. My son doesn't partake in orgies, even in his dreams, he is just the director for a porno.
"Are you gonna blog about this?" he asked, blinking sleep out of his eyes.
No. Who would believe me?