The Little Puppy.

Every Saturday night, I call (adoptive) Mom and Dad.  They love the ritual.  They can expect my call on Saturday night, between 4-7 their time. 

If I miss it, they worry.  So I only miss it if I have a migraine, or so viciously depressed I can't fake it.  They would probably be upset over the latter. 

Anyway, I was describing various developmental disorders to Mom, and said "Fetal Alcohol is the friendly little puppy, jumping on you and yapping away, wants to be your best buddy.  [another problem] is the angry cat hiding under the bed and hissing."  

She loved it.  "The little puppy!  Oh, Heather, that's you!" 

[laugh]  I'm choosing to be flattered.