The child reads my expression, puts on a contrite face, and tells me how LOVELY I LOOK, and gosh, isn't my house so ATTRACTIVE? Those are his words. The boy is 11. I am currently in a dirty ballcap and tee shirt, having worked in the garden for the most part, and haven't ducked into the shower yet, and there's laundry piled everywhere. Riiiiiiight.
Oh, he's good. He's very good. he's wrapped up in a towel in our gameroom, as I've been informed his mother "knows I'm over here, and she's running errands." Uh huh.
Here's a random song for your trouble, those who read it all. :D Del The Funky Homosapien: Mistadobolina