Home of the Reluctant Midlifer. This is where I rant, rave, reflect, and ROFLMAO. Feel free to do the same. Let's be clear: I am irreverent, and I like me that way. Grab a libation, kick back, and share your thoughts -- and don't lie, cuz I'll know.
Must I be expected to remember everything that happens to me? People, if I can't rely on my children to fill in the blanks when I occasionally forget the minutia of an event, who can I rely on?
The following is an email I received from my daughter, TG, in response to my extraordinarily reasonable request for a memory filler so I could make a Wee Wisdom post about Miss America's reaction to seeing me greet my date at the front door. Certainly, when you've read it, you'll understand why I am utterly appalled!
TG: "Geez, Mom, this is your story. You're killin' me here. (I might have already been told this story a coupla times.) It went like this:
Miss America ran up to say hello.
You gave your date a hug and kiss.
Miss America hung back to wait until y'all were done.
She said hello.
She came to me and said y'all were kissin'.
I asked, if she asked, if y'all were gonna get married, cuz that is the rule. You kiss a boy, you marry that boy.
She said, 'No, I didn't want to interrupt their lovin'.'
We all laugh.
Mom writes a ridiculously over-complicated version of the story for her blog."
Ridiculous? Over-complicated? Hmph! People, my daughter doesn't know me AT ALL!