(Conversationally, as if questioner is interested:) So, SJ, what’s new? Are you done alienating the gleefully childless and weak-stomached peeps?

Yes, I think so. I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough with torn vulvas, cranky fat women, and boobs that are gigantor for unpleasant reasons to last…a lifetime, probably. And since is the Me Show, starring Me, S. Al, my sophisticated audience probably wants to know what I’m up to in Now Time.

Yeah. So work started, which is great. I am paid to have rad conversations with people about their writing. I never get tired of talking about writing, so this is good.

Being a writing tutor is one of those classic flim-flam artist positions. People come in, and they are skeptical about you, skeptical about what kind of help you can provide, overwhelmed by assignments, and so on. I have figured out that I have a five-minute window where I can convince them I know what I’m doing, and everything will be OKAY, and they won’t fail, or they won’t buy my schtick at all and I’ll never see them again. Even if I am flailing about like Whitney Houston at a PTA meeting, and they get scared of me, I can lure them back; all patients get one (1) free Dum-Dum or one (1) free set of sensual red wax lips with fangs during each visit.

Your job sounds boring!

Yeah. Well. I like talking to writers. SAT answer wrapup: SJ is to Writing Manuals as Mulder is to Porno Closet.

Let’s just say I got the skillz to get a part-time uni job and leave it at that.

Damn it! That doesn’t rhyme with “skillz” at all.

Tell us about your chickens, because that is the only reason we slog through your other prattle.

The Ladies are good. I used to call them The Girls, but I guess I shouldn’t anymore, because when I had roosters briefly most of the girls were forcibly made into Ladies. Have you ever seen chickens mating? It’s like when you’re a little kid and you know a little bit about S-E-X and you bang your stuffed animals together in your room and the smaller stuffed animals become the instant spawn. Unless, you know, you never did that.

Two things to take away from that ramble: they are LADIES now, and chook sex is brutal.

My Ladies are doing very well. The ones that hatched out last year are taking a respite from laying, which is common in the fall. Penny the Easter Egg Hen is pooping out teal-colored eggs daily, and Marzipan is making lovely brown ones. I have no more crouching chooks, hidden eggs, or egg-eating, thank you Giant Head of Conan.

Now that all the Ladies are laying in the box, I often get a surprise when I go out to collect eggs. I started with bantam hens (they are little half-sized hens and top out at four pounds) and when I open the egg door they are sitting on the nest still. They always poof themselves up and go “aaawk” to scare away me, the egg predator. It’s cute, because they become the size of tea kettles. I just chortle and stick my hand under their skirts to fish out the eggs.

It is a different story with the new ladies. They are full-sized hens. When I open they egg door on them, they say “AAAAWK” and poof up to the size of medium dogs. I put my hand toward Marzipan, who had made herself the size of a Jack Russell terrier, and she eyed my hand and turned to better position herself for some choice hand-pecking.

“Okay, Marzipan. I’ll come back later.”

Well, what’s going on with Mr. Husband? Tell us a taxi story!

Here’s what’s happening: Mr. Husband is in court this morning, because of yet another taxi-related traffic ticket. I keep telling him you can only drive on the sidewalk on Sundays, but he doesn’t believe me.