My cousin gave us some of her toddler’s hand-me-down sweatpants that are gathered at the ankle and are so much too long on our kid that they resemble the harem pants worn by Barbara Eden in 1964. So our son’s running around wearing them and K. remarks, “He looks like a samovar!”

“A Russian teapot?” I query.

“OK, maybe not a samovar,” he says. “A scimitar?”

At least he got the region right that time.

Of course, it’s better than the student who wrote to me last week: “Sorry I messed that up. I must of been having a severed blond Moment!”

In her particular case, I’d be more than happy to sever the blond. Of course, she’s small potatoes compared to one of the participants in the Multiple Repeaters Writing Skills class I taught at New York City Tech some years ago, who wrote (they were all ex-cons) in an essay “I will never forget I missed my Sons birth because I was incastrated.”

It’s a hard knock life.

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