What IS this?
Don’t get me wrong – I let my kids do the little tattoos that you put on with water, but an entire tattoo writer, complete with super-fun tattoo gun? When WE were little we played school. (I was the teacher, OF COURSE, and I once tried to convince my “students” that the correct spelling of a particular southern state is Mrs. Ippy.) We also played restaurant, but I got grounded when I used kitty litter to make my brother a lemonade. A very special lemonade. Now the kids get to fight over which one will be Kat Von D when they play My First Tattoo Parlor. What’s next, Barbie’s Brothel? G.I. Jonesin' for a Fix?
During a recent foray into refined culture and fine literature, I noticed this in my People Magazine:
"No thanks. I had a Nerd for lunch and I don't want
to have to put on my buffet-eatin' pants."
I loves me some Dylan’s Candy Bar, mostly because it was an excellent
bribe incentive for getting the boys to eat a good dinner at Patsy’s across the street. Dylan's used to have a giant bathtub filled with gumballs that they don’t want children to touch. Don’t ask me how I know this. I also washed one of my children in the sink there after a particularly messy diaper blowout, the magnitude of which forced me to sheepishly tell a store employee, “you’re gonna need more paper towels.”
But seriously, would you ever eat HALF a Tootsie Roll Midget?
“Would you like 10 large jelly beans? Or perhaps 16 carefully counted pieces of candy corn?”
“Whew! No thanks! I was gonna eat five Tootsie Roll Midgets, but I had to stop after that last half!”
In order to eat a half a Midget, one would have to hold it with two hands and gnaw on it like a chipmunk does. I am more likely to stuff four-and-a-half Midgets in my mouth at one time than I would be to eat them in half-bite servings. In fact, I may have done this once or twice in my lifetime.
Medium’s homework was to write a sentence, using correct capitalization and punctuation, about his mom. How sweet, I thought! Surely he’ll talk about how much he adores his mama. Or maybe he’ll mention how much I love him. Or that I take him to fun places, or that I make a mean racetrack, or that I sing crazy songs, or that I read cool books.
Originally it was “My mom is tired every day,” but I made him amend it so his teacher won’t have visions of me hiding under the covers and refusing to get out of bed while mumbling something about how I barely have the will to live, let alone get up and make PopTarts. Not that that would be far from the truth, but still . . .