In an effort to shock Egan even further, I will post twice in ONE day!!!!

My son F just came into my office--the sitter (A) is downstairs asking his mom to pick him up, despite the fact that I've offered to drive him so he won't be here all fucking night--and whispered, "Mom, do we have any treats?" I tell him no, but maybe we can get one later. Then he looks at me suspiciously and says, "Please, just tell me where they are--I promise I'll share with A." I say, "F, there are no treats. We'll get some later." He says, "Well, can I just check and see where you're hiding the treats?" and I say again, emphatically, "F, there are NO treats. I'm not hiding anything!" He is totally exasperated and says, "Well, can I just check?!" and at this point I'm just about insane and I say, "F, you can't check for something that doesn't exist! I do not have treats. There is no point in checking for something when I say they aren't there. I am not lying--there are NONE." He lets out this huge sigh and says, "Ugh! It's like you're speaking a different language or something!!!"

What not to wear EVER.

This morning I saw a woman who looked as if she was vying for the front cover of Glamour Magazine's Annual "Don'ts" issue. I have never seen anything like this ensemble before. From top to bottom, every inch of her would have made Clinton and Stacey clutch each other in horror. So, let's start with the top.

Long brown hair with about 5 inches of roots where the blond dye had faded. A big chunk of that hair was gathered at the top of her head in a pink shiny scrunchy that had a trail of pink feathers hanging from it. The rest of the hair hung loose.

On her neck were many strands of genuine plastic colourful mardi gras style beads.

Her chest appeared to have magnets in it, since as she walked she seemed strangely led by her breasts. It was like her breasts had a mind of their own and were taking her somewhere whether she liked it or not. That's the only way to describe this walk. Like the breasts were on a mission and were dragging her along. She had them contained in a VERY low cut t-shirt with some kind of beer logo on it, and on top of that was a black "jacket" that hung to her knees and was made of some kind of mesh netting.

On her hind quarters she was wearing pedal pushers that appeared to be intended for someone at least 4 or 5 sizes smaller. Said pedal pushers were white and covered in huge blue cabbage roses--did I mention the VERY visible pantyline?

Underneath the pedal pushers were black fishnet stalkings. Yes. I'm not kidding.

It's possible her odd walk had a little to do with the shoes she was wearing. Black "leather-look" platforms with big chunky heels (at least 3 inches) on which she balanced precariously. A dainty "gold" ankle bracelet on one leg.

She kept dashing to the curb as if she was going to jump into traffic and waving furiously at cabdrivers whose mouths opened as they drove near--none of them stopped. The well-dressed man next to me at the crosswalk glanced my way and mouthed, "Oh. My. God."

I've never seen anything like it.

Oh God no.....

When I was growing up in a small town on Vancouver Island in the seventies, I used to dream of living somewhere that an ice cream truck would visit. We were too far out of the city--there were no ice cream trucks to be found in our neighbourhood. I had seen them on tv and knew that the ice cream from those trucks probably tasted better than ice cream from anywhere else in the world. I wanted to hear that truck music and grab some money from my mom, and run to the curb with all of the other neighbourhood kids and get myself an ice cream from the most magical truck ever. I grew up feeling ripped off--I should have had that perfect childhood experience--the joy of chasing that musical version of heaven on wheels after a day of sitting in the hot sun with my friends on the curb pretending we were Charlie's Angels and discussing our love for Shaun Cassidy. I resented my parents for making me live in the country on a safe no-thru road. The pleasures I was denied because of their selfish desire to raise us with good wholesome small town values! It was a travesty from which I am not certain I have ever fully recovered.

Now I live in a suburb in the city in a neighbourhood full of small children, who play outside all day and discuss important issues such as who has the most Yu-Gi-Oh cards while they run around and scrape their knees and climb trees in the summer. And yes...there is an ice cream truck. My son has not been denied his right to the most important aspect of an idyllic childhood. He and his friends chase the truck as it slowly rounds our neighbourhood several times every afternoon.

My opinion of the ice cream truck, however, has changed over the years. I think it started the first time I took the kid to get an ice cream. The tinny repetitive jewelry box music that echoed through the streets still charmed me, and I couldn't wait to see how magical this experience would be for him. But the driver didn't look like the kind of guy I always imagined would drive the truck. He wasn't wearing a pink stripey hat. He didn't have an apron on. He wasn't super smiley. He had a big pot belly, a too-tight t-shirt and about 3 days worth of stubble on his face. And the cheapest ice cream in his truck was $4 and was barely frozen.

Realizing that I could buy a box of 6-8 ice cream treats for just a little more than the cost of one treat from the truck, I decided that visits to the ice cream truck would be reserved for very special occasions, like after a long day at the beach or something. But not all my neighbours have the same policy. It sucks to be that parent who says to her kid, "I'm not paying 4 bucks for a half-melted Fudgsicle from a truck when we have a whole box of treats in our own freezer," and then has to watch him as he stares mournfully at the chocolate-smeared faces and sticky fingers of the happy neighbourhood children whose parents aren't horrible stingy jerkfaces.

Summer is coming and with it comes the truck. Today I saw one of our neighbourhood rugrats licking some kind of caramel concoction off his fingers and wiping them on his t-shirt. I could hear the tinny truck music floating through the air. My son looked at me pleadingly and I shook my head. We have a box of ice cream sandwiches in our freezer. He glared at me and stomped inside the house.

I could still hear the music as the truck drew closer to our block and made it's tenth round in the hour...and it began to sound strangely like the theme to Jaws.