I can see. Life is good.

I am always in turn touched, fascinated, and horrified at the boring details my readers demand of me. "Dear Alice, please give us a ten-page laundry list of everything Henry has consumed for the past six months." "Dear Alice, what was the precise diagnosis of your recent ophthalmologist appointment, and also what were you wearing, was it hot?" "Dear Alice, what exactly is goat-sex like, and how do you know? Could you tell us exactly when and where you or someone you know romanced a goat?”

For the record, my husband was the one who came up with all the taste perversions I might experience as a result of my eye drops. So he’s the one who should be grilled about his filthy, filthy past. Or maybe his present. I don't know what he does when he "commutes" to "work."

Luckily I have experienced none of the side effects that supposedly come with relief from eye pain—no listlessness, or vomiting, or spontaneous liver expulsion. Whew! The doctor was unconcerned about my agony, and as I clawed at my eyes and rolled around on his floor he cheerfully explained that it was pink eye brought on by an allergy to...something. What, we may never know! Why, is a mystery! How, who cares? Who? Me and my eyes! Should I see an allergist, I asked him? He didn't see a point to it. Allergists are a bunch of know-nothings, he said, and are little better than those voodoo people. (Here is where I attract the ire of both allergists and voodoo practitioners. Voodoo-loving allergists are really going to come after me.) He performed many detailed and ouchy tests and ruled out dry eye. I worried that he was dismissing my concerns because I wasn't as ancient as the rest of his patients. While I was being inspected, they were all reading AARP Is For Youngsters Magazine or knitting with mammoth-bone knitting needles or just flying around by the ceiling, rattling their chains and upsetting the fax machine with their electromagnetic ecto-mist.

But here I am, with pain-free eyes, and not much to discuss. Everything is so damn peachy, it's embarrassing. And my son is all sunshine and rainbows and unicorns that crap puppies. He waves at everyone he passes on the street and then keeps calling out Hello! HELLOOOO! until they answer. He holds my hand and beams at me and tells me I'm his best Mommy ever--and he doesn't appear to want anything in return. He asks if he can have a treat, and if I say no, or not now, or not until you finish waxing the car, he sings, "Okay, Mom!" and he doesn't ask me again. Just now, as I was writing the above words, he asked, "Would you care to play with me?" WHAT IS HE UP TO?

In conclusion, there's a new Wonderland post up. Enjoy!