I recently met the husband and grandchildren of Church Lady when they dropped by the office to help her steal office supplies cart away massive amounts of farewell gifts. CL’s husband gave me a firm handshake and a politely friendly quarter-hug by placing his arm loosely across my shoulders. It must have been the influence of the precious children with their big eyes and their piping little voices, but to my utter embarrassment, I poked him in the ribs as though he were another of the children . . . and not a 74-year old retired minister. Perhaps I was hallucinating and thought I was really meeting the Pillsbury Dough Boy? I have no idea whatsoever what overcame me. For the love of [insert name of your personal deity], what was I thinking? I mean, granted, he does not look his age . . . and his physique, not that I was paying attention, was quite trim for somebody over 60. But still . . . Retired. Minister. [sigh] I poked him in the ribs. Fortunately, he emitted a gentle chuckle . . . then again, it could have been a warning growl . . .

Indeed, what was I thinking? What next? Am I going to give one of the hot 20something attorneys at work an absentminded package-check? . . . Or if it’s a female then perhaps a casual nipple tweak?

Did I mention that I was a little distracted by the adorable little kiddiewinks? Don’t worry, I am still horribly allergic to children — adorable or not. Nobody is going to catch me bursting into the local sperm bank brandishing a gun in one hand and a turkey baster in the other while screaming “SHUT UP!! GET OVER THERE!!! FILL IT UP!!! . . . I SAID FILL IT UP!!!!!!!!! . . . WHAT??? . . . What colour? . . . fuck, I don’t know . . . don’t they all come in white?”

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