My mother never gave out information about reproduction and I never asked. When I was nine I heard her apologize to a guest for not being able to offer napkins at lunch so I proudly retrieved the sanitary napkins from the bathroom and plunked them down on the table.
All information I got was referenced to animal behavior with embarrassed distain and disgust. Her wedding night was a bloody humiliation. The marital act was a duty performed but never enjoyed.
So I read all the books in the sixties and introduced conversations about sex to my children in nurturing ways. I thought I had covered the subject admirably when one day the Queen arrived home after a sixth grade movie about sex.
"Horrible!' Why didn't you tell me about this stuff?" she accused.
So I wasn't surprised when I had to prove to her that her maternal background was French. My word was not enough. And although my vision was blurred due to an eye examination she insisted I find the written reference before she would admit she was wrong.
Last night Gary's butt phoned my house three times. When I phoned him to tell him to stop sitting on his pager blackberry gizmo, I let myself engage in a brief discussion of how Q was mis-reporting grandmother information. Gary jumped at the chance to say she should not blog at all as the girls where he worked did not want to be mentioned on her blog.
Well, she did call them the P---- Posse but she did not get into their nationality. If she had called them Germans I can see why they might have been steamed but P---- Posse is harmless fun. Viva La Queen!