Well, after weeks of the spawnage coughing lung-oysters in my general direction and tossing their snot-sodden, un-Kleenexes at me every three minutes, I have finally surrendered my immune system to their plague. I am a sputum-producing machine and my throat feels like it's lined in pink fiberglass insulation and napalm. Needless to say, my basal crab level has skyrocketed.
I don't know what the fuck to type about tonight... I'm not necessarily in the most reflective of moods this eve'n. Oh, Mr. Z did mention that in his "Reproductive Health" class yesterday, he learned all about the dreaded "nocturnal emission." Of course, the Old Lady responded with a "Oh, that's neat," while I did my usual -- sprayed whatever liquid I was drinking out through my nose and turned my head away so he didn't see me tittering like a schoolboy. I'm sorry, I can't help it -- I cannot discuss sex or any sex-related particulars without giggling, stammering and/or homina-homina-homina-ing. The Old Lady, on the other hand, can orate on the topic for hours with nary a smirk, hence, she handles most of the dirty work.
I did somehow manage to ask Mr. Z if he understood what the the "N.E." was all about, and he paused before he said, "So... what comes out? Is it pee?" Pee?! I think they're teaching you about the wrong kinda wet dream at school, dude. Then the Old Lady gets ready to start in on the ins and outs, if you will, of the said emission when I pointed out to her that we were all eating dinner at the time, and Miss O was sitting RIGHT IN FRONT OF HER and perhaps there was a better, more private venue for discussing the matter. A sticky situation, indeed.
So, instead of going to the other room, the Old Lady whispers all the sordid particulars in the boy's ear. He seemed satisfied and left the room. Then I pointed out to Old Lady that she had just described the process of involuntary nighttime ejaculation, in her hushed, dulcet tones, into the youthful, impressionable ear of her son. I then drove to the bank to open a savings account for the years and years of therapy he'll be needing to undo the Freudian scarring she had just thrust upon him.
Alas, whatever happened to the days when she used to whisper the mechanics of the nocturnal emission in my ear?