Saturday afternoon is for the toddler gallery crawl.

And I do mean crawl. It took wee Chas and I over two hours to do a walk that, solo, would take about twenty minutes. Over to Ossington and down to Queen to return last week's DVD to Black Dog Video ("Woof-Woof! Black! Tail!" at the sight of the sign, every time.) Through the slightly Gehennan corridor behind the Queen and Ossington bus stop, then on down Queen.

He's pretty good about not picking up random trash on the street. In fact, my little Virgo dude is fastidious; he points out each pile of trash and says "Yucky!" or even "Swash!", which is his word meaning, "Mother, I simply must, must wash my hands immediately." He runs up and down slopped entrences, though, sits on each and every chair, bench and stoops, plays air piano on windowsills. He knows damned well that the two choices for transportation are to walk, or to be carried, and, when dawdling and presented with the choice, always has to think very hard before giving me a decided answer.

One of the Katherine Mulherin galleries has an exibit featuring sloppily painted black copyright signs on newsprint; Chas ran in and out of that display about a dozen times, yelling "C!C!C!"

And I scored vintage dresses at the Marylou Flamingo sale this morning, while my dad took the kid to Babygym.

It's the penniless socialite lyfestyle. I spent a day shopping and looking at art. It didn't cost me much, but it was not what I would call a productive day. Then I remembered that I was going to start some kind of blog, or something, and hadn't I better get to it?