Anatomy Lesson

We spent part of Father's Day outdoors. My son and I share the same constitution. Our skin requires paba-free SPF 250 from 6 am to midnight and we have environmental allergies to most things - trees, pollen, nuts, cats, dogs, mold - basically any item one might encounter in nature. Except German cockroaches. I kid you not. When I asked the allergy tech why they test for German cockroaches, and not the good old American version, she replied as though I had posed the most intriguing question ever about the Secret of the Universe, "I have NO idea! Nobody has ever asked me that before!"

This is all background to my main point. We arrive home after dangerous and reckless exposure to a non-hermetically sealed environment. I notice Ethan has a few small raised bumps on his chest, maybe hives, possibly an allergic reaction to something or other. But not German cockroaches. I tell Jeff that after Ethan's bath, we should give him a dose of Benadryl.

Ethan whines: "I don't need any Benadryl!" He hates the taste.

Me: "You do. You have red bumps on your chest and I don't know what they are from."

Ethan replies in a tone that I have only heard used by teenagers to convey the message that their parents are the dumbest people to ever be permitted to breathe oxygen.

"Mommy ... EVERYONE has red bumps on their chest. LOOK ..." pulling up Jeff's shirt to triumphantly illustrate his point, "SEE! Even daddy has them. They are called knuckles."

Where All The Magic Happens

How I spent my weekend. Extra credit if you can figure out what is not supposed to be there.

Clarification

Recently several friends have inquired as to whether I planned on "having my boobs done." I was confused. At first I thought it was some sort of secret conspiracy regarding the state of my cleavage and was insecure. I wondered if once you reached a certain age, sorority by-laws required all former members to have reconstructive work on their feminine wiles, but I was not aware of this fact because I had skipped those parts of the sorority meetings in college since I was too busy making out with R or M or F .... or G ... or T ... to attend. And then, it was pointed out to me that I indicated in a prior post that I would be "off to buy boobs."

To be clear: I was helping a friend pick out some slip-on enhancements, so to speak, for an oddly-configured bridesmaids dress. Sorry to disappoint (that is a shout out directly, to you, Dear Husband). If I do end up needing surgery in the future, however, I will be sure to see if I can get some sort of package deal on the brain/boob thing. Because all men know the two are correlated. Absent that development, no plans to upgrade what nature intended and has served me well (enough) for 20-some years.