American kids are lazy and mean, and make fun of me when my back is turned. This happens more frequently than you would expect, because anytime I see a child, I turn and flee. I may have a condition. This, however, is not about me, it’s about the children. If they were taught a trade such as basketweaving or mall security at the earliest age, they wouldn’t have time to follow me home, snickering all the way at my Cuban-heeled stockings and strange tan lines. There’s no reason a six-year-old should be using that kind of language, even if I do need to shave my legs.