Crazy Crap Item #105: The part where I get a clear demonstration of the fact that you get more flies with honey ...

My friendship with young Jack, the cowboy, continues unabated. But a new rapport has developed with his little brother, James, age 2. James is teeny, and thus very easy to hoist up on to my shoulder for a flight around the yard. He's also quite fond of our change jar, and finds any way he can to weasel in and make off with wee fistfuls of quarters, proclaiming, "My money!" all the way.

This past Friday, Megan invited me over for an after-school gathering -- "Children running around and drinking" is what I was promised. I was primed for just such an event, as we had recently had our fall block party, for which I procured four boxes of mini corndogs -- all of which I'd forgotten to serve. So I offered to bring them as a child-sized repast.

Turns out, mini corndogs are excellent child-food, particularly to young James. He toddled up to me, his cheeks stuffed with cornmeal and encased meats, and when I asked if he liked corndogs, if they were tasty and delicious, he could only nod vigorously and sputter, "Yeah."

Now, part of my rapport with James entails asking him totally absurd questions so he can roll his eyes saucily at me, and drawl, "Nooooo." In that spirit, I demanded, "Give me your corndogs!"

He finished swallowing, rolled his eyes, and drawled, "Nooooo."

"Come on. Gimme your corndogs!!"

"Nooo!"

"Come on!" I put my hand out. "Hand 'em over. Gimme your corndogs."

Another denial.

So I changed my tack, expecting similar hilarious denials. I put on my saddest eyes. I leaned in very tenderly, and cooed pitiously.

"Please.... please give me your corndogs...?"

He froze. He stared at me.

"Please give me your corndogs."

He reached a tiny hand into his mouth and started to scrape the remaining sludge of chewed corndog off his tongue and handed it out to me.

Well, I did ask for it.

Crazy Crap Item #104: The part where Eamon gives himself a nickname

As is well known to anyone who knows me, I am a busty lass. I have always been so, since the day I donned my first bra in the 5th grade.

Today, Eamon commented on my bustiness.

"Proud," he called my endownment. "Bold."

"They are just doing what they do," I replied.

"That's all I ask of them," he said.

It was then that I began to expatiate upon the remarkable consistency of my bustiness, and how I was the envy of all women since it stays the same size regardless of fluctuations (frequent and dramatic) in my weight.

"I'm a C cup. Whether I weigh 120 or 150, I'm still a C cup."

"C cup!" Eamon exclaimed in horror. "I thought you were a D cup. I've been telling all my friends you were a D cup! You were measured!"

He refers to my recent foray into expensive bra buying, in which I endured an official, professional, tape-measured ordeal with a boldly lipsticked Jewish woman in Skokie.

I clarified: "I walked in wearing a 36 C. She told me I was actually 36 D. Then upgraded me to 38 D. Then after we tried on several bras, I walked out with a brand new 36 C."

He was dismayed. I continued: "It varies, I think, depending on the bra. The design and construction of each bra."

"Well," he replied, "I get to keep my nickname."

"What's that," I asked.

Long pause.

"Lucky."