It's baking weather here--a free day on Friday with naught to do but add a little PLOT to my manuscript and hang out laundry. And indulge my urge to bake cookie bars. I'll need some comfort food when I get home tonight from candidate training at the dojo. Baked goods and a glass of wine will be a nice treat. I've got tape for my ankle, pills for my elbow and butterflies in my stomach. Hopefully Mr. O sticks with a traditional easy first night and then kills us tomorrow...
Which brings me to a funny story. This week I had to spend 3 hours taking VIRTUS training so I can keep volunteering at the parochial school. The movie we watched was something else--complete with a stereotypical creepy dude in glasses and long ponytail leering at the children from behind a bush beside a playground. (What really cracked me up was how the one mom marches over and pulls her daughter away leaving all of the other children behind in the company of the suspected pedophile in the film segment titled Protecting All God's Children. Anyhoo...) It was a good thing I wasn't sitting next to my BFF or I'd have made snarky comments all the way through instead of listening respectfully like I actually did.
At the karate school much is made of "Stranger Danger." Too much. In reality, most assaults and abductions involve people we already know. Strangers account for a mere fraction of criminal activity involving children. But nevermind, the parents all feel happy when their kids learn about "Stranger Danger" at karate class.
One of the nifty things we teach the kids is to YELL things like "You're not my mom!"
Cut to the grocery store where I'm trying to wrangle Team Testosterone to submit to my will without coercing them Oreos and Mountain Dew. Sure they give me sass, but then one wise-ass in the group will yell to me, "You're not my mom!" That clever little phrase we learned at the dojo.
Poor little monkey doesn't count on his mom being smarter than average. I reply (in front of customers, cashier and bag boy), "YOU just wait until we get home and I tell YOUR FATHER what you did today." (It wasn't the first time I disowned my kids in the check-out aisle. I'm fond of telling them, "Your mother will NOT like to hear how you behaved today.")
As we're fond of saying around here, "the family that kicks together, sticks together."