Overheard, years ago in hallway. Two young boys playing.

“Lets play Batman.”

“Okay.”

“You can be Batman.”

“Cool!”

“F*ck you, Batman!”

I snuck away before they discovered I overheard them.

And? At least they weren’t fighting.

When Ass Burger Boy was in grade five, he had grandiose career dreams. He didn’t want to let that pesky schooling interfere with them, either. No, sir! He started out part time. Because I insisted he still had to go to school and all. He really did not care for his teacher that year. I met her. The kid was no fool.

Inspired by television shows and his favourite movie, Ghostbusters, he decided that he would be a private investigator.

A friend printed up his cards for him. Oh, yes, he had business cards. Like this:

Detective Ass Burger Boy
Private investigator
No job too big or small

And that right there is enough to render any mother into a puddle of melty heart-flutter goo.

ABB is, and always was, resourceful. He distributed his business cards around the neighbourhood, and to business establishments. He’s quite the salesman. Loves to talk. And when he has a mission? Look out.

A few days later, he came home exploding with glee. He had a case! And he announced it to me with shining eyes, eyes telegraphing all the hope he had for his dream career finally coming to fruition. And all this after a mere three days of preparation since the decision! His life was mapped out for him!

His task was to locate a missing dog. I tried to get him to secure a deposit because I happened to know of the neighbour who hired him. Not a pay your bills kind of guy, if you get my drift.

ABB found the dog, and didn’t get paid. The neighbour stiffed him.

And sadly, that marked the demise of his career as a private investigator. He just didn’t want to have to handle the business details.

But for a while there, I could say I was the mom of a crackerjack private investigator.

I know that some of you may be considering a trip to San Francisco for the BlogHer conference this summer, and some others of you may have other travel plans.

I have a $100 voucher for American Airlines up for grabs. It’s valid until August 03, 2008. Sound okay?

Just link to this giveaway for your chance to win. Tell your blog buddies.

It’s a decent prize for the travel minded.

Winner announced on Saturday next

To those who have been wondering: Yes, I’m feeling poorly right now, but with any luck, I’ll live. I just don’t feel pretty and witty right now.

HOORAY! The Purple Plates site is now working in Firefox and IE7. The IE6 code will have to wait until tomorrow.

Sorry I’m not churning out anything this weekend. The purple plates site has me in brain freeze mode, and once I open Dreamweaver, my life is over for a while.

Blast this one-track mind.

For you puzzlers, here is the picture of Ass Burger Boy I posted earlier.

It’s a toughie, even on easy mode.

Create your own puzzles at PuzzleBee.com!

My blog buddy, Zoe, is a food nazi. She has more rules than you could ever keep track of in your head concerning food, like it mustn’t touch other foods on the plate. I would probably be over stressed if I had to feed a person like her, although I would do it, because I love her. But I’d still make fun of her.

I determined early on with Ass Burger Boy that some foods, like sugar, are actually drugs in disguise. It really wasn’t easy doing research in a small town library (before the internet) when he was little, but my own observations underlined any information I gleaned about the Feingold diet. I noticed when he was very young that ketchup would make his ears turn red, and his behaviour got really out of whack. Or it was whack. Whatev.

People often wondered how I managed to raise him single-handedly with his different abilities, and really, he was a total treat. With a healthy, non-processed, no sugar diet, he was so happy and adorable that I was truly blessed. And eat? Boy, did that chile love him some grub! Anything I made him, he would chow down on with satisfied, happy noises.

How adorable was he? He’s not eating there, but he looks like he’s reaching for food. Work with me, people.

He had his first soda pop when he was nine, and promptly threw it up. And no, it wasn’t me who gave it to him, although I recognized that as he got older, his body was better able to process food-drugs. My attitude was why mess with success?

His only real food quirk is that he cannot bear to waste it. So the only clue I got that he preferred not to eat some foods is that they would languish in the fridge.

Now that he is almost twenty-five years old, I finally learn that tomatoes and spinach are not his faves. Two foods that I always have in abundance. Heh. You coulda said something, son. I don’t go on strike because you don’t like something.

Pizza and wine with Warrior Woman are not on the agenda for the foreseeable future. She has determined that she is allergy testing herself for gluten and alcohol. And potatoes. Yes, I still have some of the fifty pound bag of potatoes left. We’ve had them baked, mashed, roasted, scalloped, everything but deep-fried. But I figure I can make a meal that she can eat without all her no-nos.

And the pizza? All the more for ABB. He likes my pizza just fine.