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Sighing, I put a little bit of each fruity sweetener on my blin. Nothing can distract Dad from saying what he’s about to say.
“I’m a penetration tester,” Dad announces triumphantly. As usual, he was looking for an excuse to say this. “It’s not as dirty as it sounds.”
Resigned to letting this play out, I take a bite of my breakfast. It’s delicious, though it’s hard for me to decide which I like more: lychee jelly, mango jam, or date syrup.
“He penetrates computer systems,” Mom says conspiratorially. “That is, when he’s not penetrating me.”
That, verbatim, is why my sisters and I have never had a friend from school visit our home more than once. Well, except for Fabio.
Interestingly, Art doesn’t cringe or ask for a divorce. Then again, for all he knows, all parents talk this way.
“Speaking of jobs,” Dad says. “Art, can you tell us what Thing 4 does for a living? She’s been keeping it hush-hush.”
Oh, no. I’m not ready for this. Must deflect. “Mom,” I say, imbuing my voice with urgency. “Are you as good with squirrel penises as you are with rooster ones?”
There. If Mom is SquirrelBoner, she’ll give it away now.
Mom stares at me like I’m the one who’s been acting loony all this time. “A rooster doesn’t have a penis. It fertilizes eggs using its cloaca.”
That’swhat she’s focused on instead of squirrel penises? Hey, at least the job question is forgotten.
Also, cocks don’t have cocks? That’s pretty ironic.
Another note: if Blue were to hear this fowl conversation, she’d freak the fuck out.
“Wait.” Dad stuffs the remainder of his food into his mouth.
Skunk. Maybe my job isn’t forgotten?
When Dad swallows, he says, “Why did you ask about squirrel penises?”
Art looks at me with a curious expression. I bet he a) also wants to know, and b) is realizing this apple didn’t fall all that far from the rotten tree.
I mimic Dad and stuff all my remaining blins into my mouth to give myself time to think.
They all watch me like hawks.
Do hawks have penises? Probably not.
“Well,” I say when I’m done swallowing. “I asked because of… our chinchilla. We’ve been calling him a he, but I can’t see any genitals proving his gender either way.”
“A chinchilla?” Mom looks around, eyes gleaming with excitement. “We don’t have one at the farm.”
“Right,” I say. “But you do have Q-Tip, a male squirrel, so I figured you could use your sexer expertise to verify that Fluffer is a boy.”
There. If they buy that, I’ll also try to sell them the Verrazzano Bridge.
“Can I please see the chinchilla?” Mom sounds like a five-year-old.
I dart Art a worried glance. “Maybe after breakfast?”
Mom does what Dad and I just did—cleans her plate.
Art finishes his food too. “How about I make the introduction?” he says. “Come.”
My parents follow him like they’re going to the Promised Land.
When we enter the living room and they spot poor Fluffer, Mom squeals in glee and Dad oohs and aahs.
