soapboxdiner

Short Skirts

You know what I caught myself saying to the munchin tonight? I caught myself saying, in perfectly good conscience and maternal concern, "No honey, you can't eat that ice cream sandwich you just got from the ice cream man until after you eat your dinner."

Doesn't sound too unnatural, does it? I'm sure every mother in history has said the same thing at least a gazillion times. As a parent, you want your child(ren) to consume their RDAs of all the essential vitamins and nutrients, right? Yeah, it sounded real good until I realized what dinner comprised: Fish sticks and tater tots.

Good thing he didn't spoil his appetite on junk food, huh?

So the weekend didn't turn out quite as expected. What with the broken water line flooding the hall and mini-me coming down with some sort of 24-hour bug complete with fever and achy whiny cat-napping can't-please-me-I'm-sick-ness, there was no alone adult time this weekend, no disco clubbing, no cabaret.

On the other hand, it's probably a good thing I got to catch up on lots of rest because, as it is fiscal month-end, we are training in account reconciliation. This, for a person who can rarely even balance a check book, is a very time-consuming and stressful thing. Thankfully only two more days of this fresh hell. I'm going bald from stress here!

Anyway, allow me to leave you with today's feature moment of absurdity:

Monday morning 7:20 a.m., off-ramp of Hwy 167: While stopped at a red light, a Dodge pickup driving man air-drums fanatically, rocking the vehicle nearly off it's shocks. On the back of the truck-bed camper, above the twine-afixed bumper and below the peeling green paint and rusty banged-out dents, two bumper stickers:

Get some big ones!
Hooters

and

Thank God for big trucks
and short skirts

6:11 pm - 08.05.02
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