Yes, the fun just never stops here at Camp Fussy. Let's see, what have we done today? Hung up some wrinkled shirts. Thrown out the usual astonishing array of empty bottles and cans. Dumped all the toys on the floor and, later, picked them all up again. Relatively little, on a global scale, yet all with Jackson walking around like a midget with Tourette's ("fucking shit!"). Admittedly, we never left the house. It's our right, as citizens of this sun-drenched state, to ignore the weather's usual smarmy invitation and nurture skin tones remeniscent of cave-aged bleu cheese. When Jack rolled in at five o'clock he noted the flower-drenched, unopened-window thickness of the local atmosphere, and the fact that I was still in pajamas, and asked, "Are we now a petri dish? Is Jackson not a child, just some sort of ambulatory fungus?" It's Tuesday. Tuesdays Jackson and I have off from preschool and work. Jack is relentlessly expressionless. "Are you having fun?" Jackson is creeping up on the third hour of his nap and I'm reading a Patricia Highsmith short story with my feet up on the couch. "You could be working at K-Mart, you know." The book falls from my hands, my eyes roll up in my head as a thin stream of drool begins to flow from the corner of my mouth. He remains hinged. "You are SO LUCKY that I love you right now."