I’ve been run over by a train. My face hurts, my head hurts, my throat hurts, I can barely breathe, and I can’t sleep. I can’t wait until I feel better. And, I sound like an 80 year old lady who’s smoked since she was 18.
That the boys are supposed to call them. I was talking to the artist yesterday after I realized that she didn’t call the boy who called the other day.
“Hey, you forgot to call what’s his name.”
“Duh Dad, I don’t call boys. If they want to talk to me they call ME.”
I guess at least we’re teaching them that the boys are supposed to do the chasing. I’m terrified of what the future holds for the artist because the boys are already salivating over her and I can only imagine what it will be like with teenage boy hormones running wild. I was once a teenage boy so I’m speaking from experience. I can only hope that she absorbs some of what we’re trying to teach her.
*ring ring ring*
“Hello?”
“Hi uh, is CS2 there?”
“No, she’s not home yet.”
“Well, can you tell her to call me the day after Christmas?”
“Sure who is this?”
“My name is I like your daughter. My phone number is…”
“Ok, I’ll have her call you.”
“Thanks bye!”
“Bye.”
Dun dun dun….
And so it begins! (Where’s my shotgun!?)
The following conversation took place this morning:
“Are you guys hungry?”
They nod silently while watching the 10th Kingdom on DVD for the 100th time.
“What would you like for lunch?”
“Claim Jumpers!”
“Fat chance. Which means no!”
“McDonalds?”
*sigh*
“Let me rephrase the question. What would you like me to make for lunch? Which means we aren’t going out for lunch.”
Now, I’m on the way to the store to get some butter for SpongeBob Macaroni and Cheese.
