Scene #1: 10:00 a.m., driving down our street to run an errand, one of the neighborhood mothers was in her driveway picking up the morning paper. She is wearing a red flannel top and bottom pajama set that has tiny white reindeer all over it. On her feet she is wearing bright orange Crocs, and her curly blonde hair is not primped for the day. I do the neighborly wave through the window as we drive by and my son says,

“Clown.”

“Yes, sometimes mommies look like clowns,” I reply.

Scene #2: Later in the day, we are driving through town and see what appears to be a bunch of frat boys in the front yard of their house with a makeshift table set up, made from a door on saw horses. On top of this table are several pitchers of what surely is beer — they are all merrily drinking the amber-colored liquid from their clear plastic Solo cups.

“Drinks!” my son exclaims.

“Yes, son, those certainly are some drinks!”

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