Usually, I don't share with you the trivial ins and outs of my boring, suburban mom of three kids and one dog, wife of fireman, daughter of still married parents and lover of all things reality TV days.
Point is, my days really are that. Boring.
Boring in a good way, not in a bad way.
The fact that my biggest complaints revolve around my appliances and their utter INABILITY to spin a load of clothes properly should point to the fact that really, my complaints are small. And for that, I am thankful.
And sometimes, funny things happen, like yesterday - in which I laugh myself to sleep because really, it should be illegal to laugh so much in any one given day.
At the grocery store, after bumping into my 4th-grade teacher (we live in a small town, think John Cougar Mellencamp's Little Pink Houses, 'cept not in the South):
Teacher: Well, there's that little 4th-grader!
(I am flattered that I will always remain a 10-year-old in his eyes, no matter how old I truly am. This, in fact, almost makes up for the fact that I was not carded at the liquor store while purchasing 4 bottles of booze. I thought it was because I had my kids with me.)
Me: Hi Mr. Jones!
Teacher: Quick! What's nine times nine?
Puzzled look on teacher's face.
Me: Oh, I am just trying to keep you on your toes!
Trying to hide the fact that I incorrectly answered the math question. Thus, proving to myself and everyone around me that I, indeed, am dumber than a 4th-grader.
Me: It's eighty-one.
Still trying to cover up the blunder.
Teacher: Well, you're a quick one, aren't ya? Just like your mother.
My mother will be so proud of me.
After returning home from a 'waxing' appointment, Katie takes my face in her hands and examines my eyebrows (she will NOT be allowed to examine the job done elsewhere, nor will she even know that I . . . . never mind. I'll take bikini wax and raise you one.).
Me: How do my eyebrows look?
Me: Thank you.
Katie: Did they take off your old eyebrows and put new ones on mommy?
At Costco, getting supplies. I see an older gentleman with a glimmer in his eye coming up behind my husband as he wolfs down his hot dog (I have no idea if it is a Highbrow National or not, so don't ask).
Old Man: You look like a horse man, what kind of a horse is this here?
He holds a shiny, new quarter out for my husband to look at.
Brett: I don't know, maybe a mustang? Or a stallion of some kind?
Old Man: You sure?
Old Man: It's a QUARTER HORSE!
He takes back his quarter and walks away, laughing like a hyena.