Last night we continued the Little House on the Prairie saga. Daddy read the first two chapters of By the Shores of Silver Lake not realizing until it was way too late that Mary was now blind and good old Jack the dog was going to die.
The House Blonde sobbed hysterically and swore she'd never ever read another Little House book. That Boy was plenty sad but also morbidly curious about the unspoken details. All things considered, it just isn't good to end the evening that way. So, after twenty minutes of hugs, reassurances, and speculation about the nature of life and the Great Beyond (punctuated with more tears) we let them both sleep in Mama's bed (it's never been my bed, always Mama's). Yeah, we're pretty progressive.
Now the thing that occurs to me is that nobody ever told Jake that boys don't cry, but as he gets older he's just naturally making a liar out of all those cultural pyscho-babble nannies that have been pointing fingers and casting aspersions since the early 1970's upon the vast patriarchal conspiracy for creating anal retentive men that are incapable of, well, the simple act of shedding tears. Me? Oh Dude, TWC never cries, haven't cried since I was a little kid. What? Hey, Real Men don't cry (they don't eat quiche either or bar-b-que with propane).
On another note, Wayne W dropped by the Casa to pay his respects to Don Miguel. He was telling tales out of school. Something about a sweet young thing at work that was sexually harrassing him (at his advanced age this isn't offensive). Apparently she's been encouraging him to give in to his mid-life and have a fling with her (despite being married to the former Miss Amphetamine Annie, he was tempted). I guess their last conversation went something like this.
19-year-old Work Flooze: Come on Wayne, you ever sleep with a black woman?
Wayne: No, the hood always scares them off.
We report, you decipher.