Have a good day

When I was a teen-ager, and was heading out to school for the day, my mother would say, “MAKE IT a good day!”  Naw.  No pressure, or anything.  And why are you saying that?!?  Do you think I have a PROBLEM with having a good day?  I always KNEW YOU HATED ME!!!   WHY DOES EVERYONE HATE ME?!?

Despite the teenage angst, I did get the point.  Which was:  How your day goes is up to you – so make it good, dammit!   [I actually added the dammit part; Mom’s most likely horrified now.  But I never was her favorite anyway.  Refer to angst, teenage – subcategory: lots of, above]

Then, when I was a grown-up, I had a colleague.  And I say “had” because I no longer have a job;  And the colleague in question is deceased.  If it’s not one thing, it’s another, right?  Rest in Peace, Remotee Four. 

And this colleague had four kids, most of whom were teenagers at-the-time.  And they had this ritual they would go through before they left the house.  I can’t remember now exactly what the ritual was because it’s lost in the sands of time which fill my head, then get displaced by 80’s songs and subsequently spill out my ears and onto the floor – which someone then has to clean up.   For free.  Because it’s not like anyone around here is getting PAID to sweep the grit off the floor.

But I do remember being truly inspired by my colleague’s love for his children, and what he said to his kids when they left the house each day.  It was something along the lines of, “I’m proud of you, now go out and do something wonderful today.”  I know, RIGHT?  I’m getting choked up just thinking about it too.  We are SUCH twins!  Yay, Twins!!

And once I became a mom with school age kids, I boarded the send-your-kids-off-to-school-with-inspirational-words train.

But I made a mistake.  And accidentally told my kids about how – just about every summer of my youth – we would spend time at a cottage by a lake.  It was in New Hampshire (Hamp-shuh!) and it was soo-pah doo-pah!  But the cottage was on the rustic side and the plumbing drained into a septic tank, which would fill up quickly when big crowds were around.  And unless you took evasive measures, you’d soon be squelching through a front yard full of bad smells.

Evasive measures included posting a fun sign on the wall in the bathroom about not flushing the toilet EVERY time it was used.  What the sign said, I remember to this day.  I even waxed poetic about it to my kids.

Flash forward to the future, where it’s ACTUALLY my robot maid who cleans the sand up off the floor.  Her name is Rosie and she works for free.  Because if she ever DID ask for money, I’d flip her switch to “off.”  She’s a robot afterall and she’s not that great of a cook, since we’re being honest.

Anyway, every morning after Judy and Elroy have walked Astro, but before they all pile into Hubby’s bubble-topped spaceship, [Reminder: we flashed forward to the future.  So please don’t act all confused about these future-y references.] I hug and kiss Hubby and the kids and tell them I love them.  Then I say to them, “Have a good day, have lots of fun…”

To which the kids reply, “But please don’t flush for number one!”

Inspiring, no? 

The NINTH Wonder of the World

Sonny was spouting fun facts as we were milling around the kitchen this morning.  The kids and hubby were putting on coats, collecting backpacks and in general, getting ready to walk out the door and into their life. 

And lil ol’ me?!  I was drinking coffee in my p.j.’s and doling out goodbye kisses.  Welcome to MY life!  I’mmmm sittin’ in the lap!  Sittin’ in the lap of luxury!  Sittin’ in the lap…*

It’s right about this time that Sonny states, “You know, there’s a NINTH wonder of the world.  It’s – THE WORLD!”

To which, Sissy replies, “Uhhhh, wouldn’t the FIRST wonder of the world be – THE WORLD?!?”

Good point.  Especially if we’re ranking wonders by order-of-astounding.  But NINE Wonders of the World, huh?  So I say out loud, “What exactly ARE these Nine Wonders, Buddy?”

He starts itemizing, “The Grand Canyon…”  This clearly is top of mind since we were just there.  ‘Cept I call it Scary Canyon http://newstayathomemom.com/?p=3041.  And if you thought “grand” was a misnomer, “wonder” would have to be one too.  Wonder implies your eyes get round and your mouth forms an “O.”  My bowels just turn to water; Wonder my a$$! 

But he continues, “…the pyramids, Niagara Falls, Mount Everest…”  And then?  It goes wonky.

“…this volcano thing, a golden room somewhere…”  Hmmm, I am not familiar with these items.  A golden room somewhere??  That doesn’t sound quite specific enough.  Or even right.  And I think some wonder lists have gotten combined here.

“…and a coupla other things.”  Well, a coupla other things and THE WORLD, of course.  Let’s not forget that. 

Also?  A “coupla other things” sounds pretty vague.  I’m no expert or anything, but if you count backwards and include THE WORLD, then we’re really at EIGHT Wonders of the World.  And Sonny said there were NINE.  So a “coupla other things” would really be just ONE other thing, right?  And what would that ONE other thing be?!  Unless, of course, it’s really EIGHT Wonders of the World.  Or maybe even SEVEN Wonders of the World??  If we subtract out THE WORLD (because I don’t think THE WORLD counts as a WONDER of THE WORLD, but I could be wrong), then we’re at SEVEN. 

And now?  Now it’s gotten confusing. 

Because really??  Really, when you get right down to brass tacks, all of these lists are just math masquerading as wonders.

And you know what math means, don’t you?!?  PEACE OUT!

 

*Why yes, those are the lyrics from “Sittin’ in the Lap of Luxury” released in 1990 by Louie, Louie.  Now, I know that on the surface, this does not look like a winning entry in the “80’s Song For Every Moment In Life” game we have so much fun playing together.  But how ‘bout if I told you Louie, Louie (Louis Cordero) used to tour with Erasure?  80’s much?  And what if I told you he appeared on the Arsenio Hall show TWICE during the first year of the show’s debut??  Totally 80’s!  And that he played Madonna’s boyfriend in the music video for her “Borderline” song?!?  Come on!  That’s quintesSENTIAL 80’s!  Then you would know that a master is at work here.  And that the whole thing practically screams eighties with a capital EIGHT!  And then you would concede that I have won another round in this game.  And that I am truly winner, winner chicken dinner!  But all this talk of EIGHT reminds me too much of the talk of NINE and also SEVEN.  Which still means…PEACE OUT!

Show’s on!

Sonny has my old P90X pull-up bar installed in his room.  The difference between the two of us is that he can actually DO pull-ups on it.  I never could.  Ratbastard P90X, if I EVER see you again, it’ll be too soon!!! [She said with a hate-filled voice, dripping venom.  And diamonds.]

So when I went upstairs last night, it came as no surprise that he had just been using it, “Hey Mom.  Look at my abs!”

“Yep, sweetie.  Good job.”  What pull-ups have to do with abs, I don’t know.  And speaking of abs, there were none present, just really more strategic “lines” that give the odd resemblance to abs when viewed in low-light.

Sonny and I both knew what was what, so then he says, “When I hit puberty, will I get real abs?”

Like…all-of-a-sudden, a six-pack is gonna sprout on his stomach overnight.

“Well, abs are something you have to work really hard at, whether you’ve hit puberty or not.”  But now my spidey-senses are tingling.  Puberty?!  Let’s discuss…

And because I’m a good mother, filled with wisdom and a stellar sense of timing, I launch into a speech on “How your body will REALLY change once you hit puberty.” 

This conversation is akin to a plane completely stalling out, then plummeting towards the ground.

When I pause to take a breath from the “hair” portion of the presentation, Sonny says, “Wait a second.  So hair will grow OUT of my belly button?”

Pull. UP.  PULL! UP!!! “Well…not exactly.”  So then I’m forced to clarify what I just said, because admittedly, it was totally confusing.  And as I’m “clarifying,” I can tell it’s not going any better than the original explanation…

OH.  MY.  SWEET. LORD!!!!!  This is awful.  This is truly AWFUL!!!  I’m the one SAYING it and I just want it to stop.  And let’s pause right here and come to a consensus that small words like “on” and “around” really do make all the difference when discussing hair, don’t they?

I’ve misspoken one of those words, and I can tell Sonny is now picturing himself – once he hits puberty – having to go WITH the dog to the groomer to get all of the hair completely COVERING his penis trimmed.

The plane has crashed into the ground at this point.  There are no survivors.

Another big pause…processing, processing…then Sonny says, “Sometimes when we have to sit criss-cross applesauce in class, you can see Charlie’s butt crack.”

Oh, thank you!  ThankyouTHANKYOU!  I’d MUCH rather talk about Charlie’s butt crack when he sits criss-cross applesauce!!!  YES, LET’S DO IT!!!

And so we leave our happy mother-son couple, chatting about Charlie’s butt crack…

And this has been another presentation of “How to talk to your pre-pubescent son in a completely irrelevant yet confusing and most likely mentally scarring way.”

Thanks for tuning in.

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

School year’s almost over.  Ya know how I can tell?  Sissy has started reading an Agatha Christie murder mystery in literature class.

Really?! 

I mean…it’s not as bad as if she were reading old Archie comic books, but it almost is.   [Agatha Christie fans, please do not contact me.  I’m just funnin’ with ya.  Ms. Christie was a quality writer who demonstrated great insight into the murderous human psyche.  But really, what she has to do with sixth grade lit class, I just don’t know.  As for the Archie comic books fans?  You also should not contact me.  But in your case, I’m totally serious; that stuff was crap.  And that part where Archie started dating Josie from Josie and the Pussycats?  Barf.  Jump the shark much?  And a way better title for that comic book series would have been, “Boy gingers don’t make good comic book heroes.”]

Anywho.  The title of the book Sissy is reading is, “And Then There Were None.”  When she got home from school today, she was so excited about it that she had to read the opening poem to me.  It’s about ten soldier boys.  Something happens to each one along the way… AND THEN (eventually) THERE WERE NONE!

Me to Sissy:  Huhn.  You know what’s weird about that?  Back when I was your age, I remember the poem being about Indians.  In fact, I remember the book being called something else.  Something like, “Ten Little Indians.”  But I suppose that’s not politically correct anymore. 

Sissy, acting surprised that I actually know sh*t about sh*t, explained that yes, the book was called “Ten Little Indians” at one point.  But prior to THAT, the poem it was based on was originally called “Ten Little Niggers.”

Ok.  That veered waaaaaay south.

And again, I say unto you, what does any of this have to do with sixth grade lit class?  “Ten Little NIGGERS?!??”  Holy Politically Incorrect, Batman! 

But speaking of Agatha Christie, does anyone else remember, as a tween, sitting at the kitchen table listening to their two older sisters argue about a DIFFERENT Agatha Christie book, “The Murder of Roger Ackroyd?”  Remember how one sister blurted out that the narrator did it – and effectively ruined the entire book for not only the sister she had been quarreling with, but also the sweet, kind, loving (not to mention totally cute-as-a-button) tween sister sitting at the kitchen table?!?!!

No?  You don’t remember any of that?!?  Hmmm.  You must have completely forgotten about it just like your mother said you would after she came to smooth over the ruined-Agatha-Christie-book-situation between your older sisters.

Yep.  Must’ve completely forgotten about it.  Phew.  That was a close one.

Hardware Stores

I view hardware stores the same way some people view Pinterest:  All the great ideas for cute projects you’ve ever had or seen, all waiting in one place.  Just waiting until you have enough time and money to do them all.  In other words, when you’re dead.  And that’s why there’s a LOT of rich-but-decomposing people in the hardware store.  Hyuck-hyuck-hyuck!

Back when there were no other hardware stores in the world, I called my favorite one Home Despot.  They knew they were the only game in town and could lord it over you.  And be completely unhelpful and nondescriptive.  For example, they would post signs like: Topsoil – 5 for $10.

5 WHAT, ya jerks?  5 DOLLARS of topsoil for 10 dollars?!?  5 GIRTH UNITS of topsoil?!?  Annoying. 

But since Lowes came to town and shot Home Depot down, Dr. Pepper fixed him up and now they’re after 7-Up.  The result?  Home Depot’s topsoil signage has gotten better.  Competition always brings out a humbler, gentler, more descriptive Home Depot.

But I digress.  Where I was really headed with all the Home Depot talk is that I still go there sometimes.  Old habits die hard.  Recently I was looking for unfinished wooden boxes.  Don’t ask!  See great ideas/cute projects above.  A man in blue work coveralls was coming in from the outdoor garden section – which is where I was headed – and he asked if he could help me.  The welcome guy at the store entrance I had been speaking to earlier was following behind me, so I thanked Coveralls but said I was already being helped.

Welcome Guy and I never did find the boxes, but I did find $25 worth of OTHER great ideas and when I was checking out, I saw Coveralls again.  Also checking out.  In the self-check aisle.  He was shoving spraypaint in a bag and glancing at me over his shoulder.  And wearing blue work coveralls. 

Did you know that ACTUAL workers at Home Depot wear crisp orange aprons?

That’s it.  That’s all I wanted to say. 

And to answer the question, it’s 5 BAGS of topsoil for $10.  That’s a pretty good price.  You should get some.

Happy Easter!

We Catholics do this fun thing the week before Easter.  We put on a play. 

But I somehow miss that Palm Sunday casting call every year, so I’m stuck in the General Ensemble with the rest of the rabble-rousers.  The priest, on the other hand, always gets the leading role.  (I suspect it’s because he’s the only one who can pronounce Eloi Eloi lama sabachthani.)

Anyway, the rabble-rousers have to shout horrible things at the priest-playing-Jesus like, “Crucify him!” and “Give us Barabbas!”

It’s just dreadful.  And I feel so awful doing it, that I read the lines straight.  No emotion, no nuthin’.  But there’s always a few in the crowd who get a liiiiiittle too into it.  Uh…we’re working for free here, so settle down.

That sort of thing goes on for a good long while.  It’s a regular adventure – complete with swordplay, roosters crowing (glad I didn’t get THAT part) and some business about 30 silver shekels and a potter’s field (glad I didn’t get THAT part either!).  Then darkness covers the land.  The crucifixion we called for earlier has come to pass and a stone is rolled in front of Jesus’ tomb; Roman soldiers are set as guards.

And?

-END SCENE!-

WHAT?!? 

[sigh]

So frustrating.  We never do end that scene on a high note even though we’ve been putting on this play for a number of years now.

How does it end?  HOW does it END?!?

Nope.  You’re left hanging [bad Judas Iscariot pun, please disregard] and invited to come back NEXT Sunday to find out how it ends. 

And that NEXT Sunday?  THAT’S the best part.  That’s when the Easter Bunny comes and brings you candy.

See?  Isn’t that the BEST?!!  YAY!  You have jelly beans now!  And chocolate!!

And everyone’s acting like no one heard anyone (including the overzealous wackjobs in the back) shouting, “CRUCIFY HIM, CRUCIFY HIM!”  Like all of that has been forgiven or somethin’. 

The only thing that could POSSIBLY make Easter Sunday any better than it already is, is finding out how last week’s play ends.

***SPOILER ALERT!***Jesus rises from the dead.

ALLELUIA!

NOW end scene.  And Happy Easter.

WPM

Do you know what “WPM” means?  If you graduated from college in the early 1990’s and had to get a temp-to-perm job through Manpower, then you are thoroughly versed in WPM.

Words per minute.  As in: how many of them can you type.

Remember those old typing tests?!  Manpower was famous for them.

They’d have you use some inane “sample paragraph” with little numbers under all the words.  [I was a personal fan of “When my teacher scolded me,” but I always felt “A visit to an exhibition” coulda used a little work.]

Your Career Counselor would yell “Go!” and start the stopwatch.  You’d furiously thunk away on actual paper with no spell check or opportunity to correct your work.

And the kick in the pants (or should I say the kick in the suntan-colored hose and Kasper suit?) would be that your nerves caused your fingers to go one key “off.”  Turns out you could type 60 words of gobbledygook per minute back when that meant something.

Flash forward to a new century, and check out this “Skills and Qualifications” gem I recently came across on a job application  [above].

Where did these questions come from?!  We’re not asking any of these questions anymore – including the WPM one.

In which case, I think my answer speaks for itself.

Also?  I don’t think I’ll get the job.

Boop boop-ee doop!

All that talk about the roaring 20’s yesterday gave me a hankerin’ for a gin martini.  Daisy and Tom say “hi” by the way.

Obscure literary reference aside, actually it was the boop boop-ee doop thing that started me thinking of something else…

Back when I had a job (THANKS FOR BRINGING IT UP!  stink eye, stink eye) there was a time when several colleagues in my group worked remotely – in some combination of home or regional offices.  In other words, there were plenty of us who weren’t located at the Mothership…er…company headquarters.

This life-goes-on-outside-the-Mothership was such a bizarre concept for those employees who had been fully subsumed into the Borg that they had to come up with a name for us to fully encapsulate our appalling, renegade spirit.  The name?  Remotees.

I know you were trying to make US sound like robots to deflect some of the robot talk from your ownselves, ya Borgy Borgers!

But we Remotees fully embraced the term.  And even went so far as to make the title completely soul-less by eliminating names and instead giving ourselves numbers.  I was Remotee Three. 

And whenever we needed to ping each other during work via instant messaging, we would have some fun with it, “Remotee Three requests access to Remotee Four.  Please respond, Remotee Four.”  And we would throw in “beep boop” or similar roboty noise-words to add to the fun. 

Mostly this “instant chat” stuff would go on during conference calls being led by the Borg at the Mothership.

One such time, when I pinged Remotee Four, he responded with, “Remotee Four present and accounted for.  Interface granted.” 

But instead of the expected “beep boop,” he made a typo and what actually appeared on the screen was, “beep, boob!”  Change that p to a b and it becomes a whole different show, doesn’t it? 

At which point I begin laughing.  So I type back wondering why that particular word got spell-corrected.  Did he use that word often?!? 

He types back, “yes!” and the hilarity level escalates from there.

We’re typing back-and-forth.  I’m laughing so hard tears are streaming down my face.  I can barely breathe, when my manager calls on me with a question.

I’d been on “mute” this whole time.  So when I take myself off “mute” the only noise that comes out is fffwheeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEP!    [picture pinching/pulling the opening of a blown-up balloon so it makes that gawd-awful screeching noise.  Yeah.  It was exactly like that.]

Pull UP!  PULL UP!!!  But I quickly realize I can’t recover from this nosedive, so I hit the “Disconnect” button on my phone.  When I catch my breath, I dial back into the conference call and act like I’d been talking the whole time, “and so those would be some quick ideas off the top of my head…”

At which point, my manager is yelling something about “didn’t catch that…technical difficulties!  Start again, please.”  And so I start in again.  This time from the top.

Why won’t anyone hire me?!  As you can see, I’m fun and creative.  I think quickly on my feet.  

Remotee Three available for work.  Beep, boob!

Grand Canyon

“Grand” is a misnomer.  “Grand” makes me think Flappers are standing on some rocky ledge doin’ the Charleston while dapper fellas in jaunty hats stand behind them belting down drinks named “highball” and “sidecar.”  In general , everyone’s havin’ a GRAND time.  Boop boop-ee doop!

But that would be WRONG!  Because when I was there a few weeks ago, there wasn’t a Flapper in sight.  And that canyon is BIIIIIG.  And DEEP!  With lots and lots of rocks!!!   

So perhaps it shoulduv been more aptly named  “Rocky” Canyon?  Naw.  Maybe “Big and Deep” Canyon??  Or how’s about “Deep and Wide” Canyon?!?  THAT has a nice ring to it.  THAT, I could get behind.  Because a Canyon that’s Deep and Wide would most likely have milk and honey on the other side.  In which case, I’m in!

But “Deep and Wide” still seems too kinder-and-gentler for what that canyon really is.  Because what it really is?  Is just plain scary.  Scary as a sumbitch.

Scary Canyon.  Yep.  NOW I’m in.  Scary Canyon where you too can have a frightening, nerve-racking time!

And you thought I hated skiing…but what I really hate is heights.  (And spiders, but that’s another show.)  And the Scary Canyon has a LOT of heights.  So many heights that you start to feel like you might “accidentally” fall right in.  As a result of a good, hard shove…or because of some unintended tripping…or even due to an incident involving a combination of melon head/gravity/leaning-too-far.  And then you’d boing! boing! bounce all the way down those rocky outcrops ‘til there’s cantaloupe splattered EVERYWHERE.

And that trick I developed to gain some perspective when I’m feeling too high up?  That trick of only looking as far as the tips of my skis instead of ALLLLLL the way down, down, down?!?  That trick doesn’t work at Scary Canyon.  Because there are no skis there.

You know what else they don’t have at Scary Canyon??  Silence.  Particularly in my group.  Because in my group, there was a lot of yelling.  By someone.  Directed at other someones who were getting too close to the edge.  Or WALKING BACKWARDS DOWN SOME STUPID TRAIL WAAAAAY TOO CLOSE TO THE EDGE.  GET AWAY FROM THE EDGE!!  STOP IT NOW!!!  GET AWAY FROM THE EDGE!!!  YOU’RE GONNA DIE!  WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!!! 

See what I mean?  There was a LOT of yelling.  By someone.

And creeping.  Or we could even use the word “sidling” here.  Because how many times in your life do you actually GET to use the word sidling?!?  Sidling.  Sidling.  Did I spell that right?  Sidling.  Is it starting to sound weird to anyone else?  Sidling.  Sidling.  Does ‘sidling’ make anyone else think of ‘foundling’: a baby who doesn’t have parents BECAUSE THEY FELL IN THE SCARY CANYON!!! 

Ok.  Pull back.  Deep breaths.  I was just simply noting that there is LOTS of sidling at the Scary Canyon.  Sidling along the OTHER side of the path; the side of the path FURTHEST away from the edge.  With your head turned completely AWAY from viewing any possible milk and honey nonsense.  And stay low.  Whatever you do, STAY LOW!!!  Bend yourself completely in half if you have to!  Duck walk.  Hold on to tall grasses and scrubby pines to anchor yourself as you inch along!  Whatever you gotta do because that incessant wind will most likely blow your light-as-a-feather a$$ right over the side if you don’t STAY LOW!!!

To make matters worse, during my visit to the Scary Canyon, I had the GRANDEST zit on my chin.  It was sooo GRAND that Sonny kept saying, “Mom!  What IS that on your chin??  EVERYONE’S looking at it!!”

Really?  REALLY??!  Everyone here at SCARY CANYON was looking at my CHIN??? 

Quite possibly.  Because that thing was HUGE.  It was almost like a second head, but slightly smaller and redder, coming out of my chin.  BOOM-boom-boom…BOOM-boom-boom… [That was my panic.  Throbbing with every beat of my heart.  In my chin.]

So there you have it.  Some friendly advice for when you go to the Scary Canyon.  Please leave the second-head-on-your-chin at home.  Because it just attracts too much attention to all the sidling and yelling. 

In summation, it’s best to view the Scary Canyon from the parking lot.  A mile away.  While lying flat on your belly. 

But go if you can.  Because it’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience.  It rocks!  hee hee hee.  See what I did there?  ROCKS?!?  Boop boop-ee doop!

Kidney Punched

A friend was over the other night and was talking about Sonny’s deskcapade in all its gory glory.  [See the thrilling details for your ownself here:  http://newstayathomemom.com/?p=2994]

Sissy was puzzled about why this friend would know all about the incident since we hadn’t seen the friend in some time.  So we explained that I had blogged about it, and the friend had read the blog.

You could just see Sissy’s thought process from there:  Sonny is a complete APE and he gets blogged about?!  And I’m the best girl who ever lived and no one says “boo” about it??  Oh the injustice!   Unfair…UNFAIR!!! 

But that’s the way life is.  Do-good/are-good, straight-A students who are great at every sport they ever play sometimes go unnoticed.  Trust me, I know of which I speak.  Wink, wink.

Bless our…er…their good-girl overachieving souls, but sometimes the bad-boy shock factor makes for a more interesting clusterbomb story. 

However, the concern has been duly noted.  And to balance out the blog, and show her how much I love her, I will now talk about Sissy’s most embarrassing moment. 

We were at the airport waiting to board a plane.  I was sitting in the waiting area.  Hubby was in line near the gate.  Sissy and Sonny were off doing their own thing.  (Hey!  I was watching them.  But letting them burn off some energy a goodly distance away from me.  I may have been giving off an I-don’t-know-who-those-kids-are-but-they-must-have-terrible-parents-to-let-them-run-around-like-that sort of vibe.)

Then I see Sissy break away from Sonny and go up to a completely strange man sitting in the boarding area reading a book.  I wondered what she’s doing, but before I could react, she puts her chin on the man’s shoulder.  And the arm she had been snaking around his neck drifts up to rub his bald head.  Back and forth.  Back and forth.  She asks, “Whatchya readin’, Dad?”  And then the man whose-head-she’s-been-rubbing turns towards her.

It wasn’t Dad, was it? 

Nope. 

So Sissy stumbles away like she’s been kidney punched; she’s shaky on her legs and her mouth is open in a silent “oh!” of utter shock.

I thought it was hysterical.  Then again, I’m mean like that.  But I did tell the man we were, “so sorry.” Not really because that was totally funny.  I’m still laughing. 

But see?  Good girls DO sometimes have bad stories.  And that head rubbing, watchya reading trick?  Hang on to that one, Sweetie.  Because that’ll come in handy when you get to college.  That’s when good girls usually go bad.

No reason really, just sayin’.