Oh, what’s a blogger to do when life becomes unblogworthy?
Having left one life behind, but yet to begin a new one, I find myself waiting in bland suburban limbo without a story tell. Unless you want to hear about the afternoon I spent listening to a radio call-in show about gardening, which was about as riveting as LISTENING TO PAINT DRY, I've got nothing. (You'd think someone could let the callers in on a little something called THE INTERNET and spare the rest of us the drama of their inane questions about mulch.)
So for today, a story courtesy of my friend Ashley: super-nanny, knitting enthusiast, and the only person I know under 60 who can make a pot roast.
Some time ago Ashley accompanied a 5-year old boy in her charge, let’s call him Connor, to Puck’s Farm, an educational farm outside of Toronto, where she had the occasion to teach him a bit about the birds and bees.
They had come to see some dairy cows, and were waiting for a demonstration of the milking process. Ashley explained that just like human babies drink milk from their mothers, baby cows drink milk from their mothers too. She went on to say that when the baby cows are finished drinking, people can drink the cow’s milk, and that’s where the milk we buy at the grocery store comes from. She pointed out the udders as the part of the cow where the milk would come out.
Connor looked at the cow, and thought for a moment.
“Oh. So milk comes out of the cow’s penis. One, two, three, four. Four penises!” Connor exclaimed.
“No, Connor,” Ashley said patiently, “That’s not the cow’s penis. It’s the nipple. You have nipples too, you know.”
“Oh… okay…” As he contemplated this, his eyes began to widen incredulously, “… are we going to put our mouths there???”
“NO, Connor. We’re not.”
Soon I'll get back to talking about myself. Or I'll just make fun of my parents some more, which I've been trying to hold back on at least until after I move out of the house next week.