Goldman Smack

We used to live on a street where there was a dog called Morgan Stanley. The reason I think of this dog is because my son declared tonight at the dinner table that I used to work for Goldman Smack. For the record, I have never worked for said firm. We discuss, how Goldman Smack got into trouble recently, using apples as example. If you have a fruit shop and have an apple on sale, but whisper to your son that we need to get rid of these because they're no good, that becomes a Goldman Smack.

We are becoming more and more savage by the day. My feet are scaled like elephant's. My cultured pooch has condescended to taking spare rib bones to the garden and burying them for snack. We venture out to Carrefour to acquire items on "Soldes". Mid afternoon, I find myself sitting at the poolside in my bikinis which were on "promotion", painting the rails with "anti-rouille noir brilliant" - I think it means "rust-begone and I am going to make you shine like crazy". To avoid overheating, I jump into the pool every so often. At 5 pm, I am told that those who want to see the world, should get ready and hop in the car. Three of us make the cut, and find ourselves at the castle in Cagnes-Sur-Mer. The bay is azur, the medieval town quaint, and the entire experience an exercise of self-restraint. My husband drives around like a maniac, questions me about whether I read properly that the antique market was open today, gets lost and demands to know where we are on the map NOW. I tell myself that if I have nothing nice to say, don't say anything at all. So, my lips are sealed in a tight grimace, which does not amuse my husband. As we return to home base with said husband at the wheel, I check my neck to see that my head is still there, which fortunately is.

And so, at dinner, we anticipate our relatives' arrival, and our future in general. One thing leads to another, and I hear myself declaring that I was No.1 in maths in Japan for a nanosecond (which is true), and my son looks very surprised. Why, I wonder... He says, I know you are smart Mother, but I have underestimated you. Ha ha ha!, I say. As he asks his little brother what the square root of 4 is, I rattle off a formula sounding like gibberish, only to be reminded that the answer is 2. My baby hollers " you ain't nothing but a hound dog"....

Life in the slow lane again...