My 7 year-old was sad this morning because we are redecorating the walls of his room and they are temporarily bare.  “I don’t like my room anymore; it is so desolate,” he declares. I make a mental note to keep a dictionary by my bed.  He wants to cuddle as usual before camp.  (His version of cuddling requires fake sword fighting; fending off dangerous animals in the wild . . . . anything but what envisions as calm cuddling.)  I had been up most of the night because some food didn’t agree with me and I have no energy.  I sleep-walk through being a gemsbok protecting my young calf from some type of ferocious cat — cheetah, leopard, lion, tiger — I can’t remember these kind of details in the mornings.  My son also announces he must be called by his full name or certain accepted nicknames because he is a grown-up boy now.  I make a mental note to weep (when I am fully conscious) that my baby is growing up. 

I am running late (which is ordinary) and need to hop a cab. The taxi driver engages me in conversation (because I have the word schmuck printed across my forehead). Then he says, “well let me tell you about me” (the point all along). He is a transgender woman-to-man from Bangladesh, having had the operations in India. Now he is on a roll. He tells me that he will marry his girlfriend when he has the final operation to extend the nerve further up his surgeon-made p*nis so he can have feeling. Aaaaaaaah. Toooooo muuuuuch infoooooo. Ok ok ok ok ok.  I give him an extra tip for the cause.

It was not yet 10am and my day was already too eventful.

Oh, and my 80-something year old aunt believes the astroturfers.  I make a mental note to tear my hair out once I take some aspirin to deaden the pain it will cause.