Bras and Anchovies

For the past week my daughter has been drawing some new pictures.

"What's that?" Mom asked, peering over her shoulder. "Eyeglasses?"

"No." She concentrates on her work. "It's a bra."

Another drawing.

"This one's a training bra," she explains.

I'd like to say "so the obsession begins," but it wouldn't be true. When she was two and a half I asked her what she wanted to be for Halloween. "Something with breasts," she replied.

She was very happily adopted, thank you very much. Anybody gives us any Freudian crap about this I shall remind them that my daughter is also a brown belt.

As to the anchovies. The other day she asked me If I'd ever met one. "Well, yeah, I guess," I said. "You know, on pizzas."

"I met one at Galactic Pizza," she said.

"Yep, they've got 'em there."

"He was very nice," she went on. "But he didn't believe in God."

I considered. "I guess that might be tough for an anchovy."

"Mm. He said his mom was an anchovy, too."

"Did she believe it God?"

"No, no. She's an anchovy."

It took a minute but the light finally went on. "Honey-- do you mean atheist?"