Him: “Who is Paparazzi?”
Me: “Who????? Pavarotti? Luciano Pavarotti? Well, he just died recently and he was a world famous tenor. Do you know what a tenor is? We could pull it up on the computer and listen to some of his singing.”
Him: “Mom … Mom, Mom.” (Eye roll.) “I don’t care about some old opera guy. Paaaaa paaaaa raaaaa ziiiiii.”
(He says it real slow so an idiot like me can understand.)
Me: “Do you mean THE paparazzi? Like the guys that chase around all the stars to get photographs to sell to magazines?”
Him: “Yeah, I think so … there are more than one? Do they hide in bushes?”
(At this point I decide after the eye roll that he’s probably not up for the clarification that if speaking of just one it would be “paparazzo” and so by definition “paparazzi” would be more than one.)
Me: “Yes, there are more than one and as far as I know none actually have the sir name “Paparazzi.” Yes, they hide in all sorts of places so they can get pictures of famous people.”
(I’m about to continue this explanation with how I feel like they are parasites and how I secretly delight when one of them gets whacked over the head with an umbrella or their foot run over by a Mercedes, when he cuts across me and says …)
Him: “COOL! That’s what I want to be when I grow up!”
(Silence)
(Finally)
Me: “Well, that would be just super.”
PREVIOUS PAGE
