So, I’m watching Celebrity Apprentice last week. Yes, I watch Celebrity Apprentice. Deal with it. It can’t  all be Robertson Davies and Masterpiece Theatre around the house. My three-year-old wanders casually out of his room (as if I hadn’t put him to bed an hour before) and takes a look at the television just as Jenna Jameson plants one on Tito Orvitz’s mug. For those of you not in the know, like my oh so very innocent self, Jenna Jameson, my husband informs me, is a very famous adult movie star. Maybe the most famous.

Sidebar: How does my husband know this I wonder? He has yet to come up with a plausible explanation for that one. So far it’s involved what we call the Colin Mochrie defence, when in a difficult spot, collapse. Faint. Feign a heart attack. Die if necessary.

Anyway, back to my three-year-old

Oh, mom, that’s good kissing.

he informs me.

My question is this–how does HE know she’s a professional?

Is it some boy gene that can distinguish between the rank amateur and seasoned professional just by watching one little peck on the cheek?

Good God, he’s could be Donald Trump’s eyes and ears on Celebrity Apprentice II. After all he’s demonstrated that he has the ability to pick the best. He has discernment. He could replace George when George is out of town on business. It would have to be a very particular task though I grant you.

And with all the awful and yet somehow funny imaginings that that raises. I’m signing off.  Here’s hoping it’s Piers and Omarosa’s week to hit the street.  I’d like to see them share the cab ride home and both try to get their last words in.