Squish and I have been home together for the last three days.
She's gonna kill me.
Seriously--today, I had to take Big T to a dentists appointment (there was a lot of "Holy Cats! Has that kid grown?" Uhm, he must have-- he's TALLER THAN A FREAKIN' TANK!) so I took her too.
We seriously entertained the receptionist, because she NEVER STOPPED TALKING. But the weirdest part was when she was looking at a picture in an ocean book.
"Hey look! What's that?" (She must have said this about six zillion times.)
"I don't have the faintest idea." (I am searching the plate captions frantically--they're not always in the same place.)
"It's an egg sac."
"It is not!"
"It is too! Look. It's an egg sac."
(Finally finding the caption.) "Well, what do you know about that? It's an egg sac. How did you know that?"
"I just knew. It's an egg sac."
On the way home we stopped by the yarn store. The ladies at the yarn store were very accommodating--but she was not satisfied.
"Mom, this is not our regular Babetta's. What is this place?" (Babetta's is our LYS. She knows it well. It's the only place in a two county radius we're likely to encounter another young lady with Squish's real name.)
"This is a yarn store."
"No. This is a Babetta's."
But she was polite.
"I like your earrings."
"Yeah?" (said the sweet middle aged lady in the stunning hand knit purple sweater.)
"Yeah. And I like your sweater. It's pretty. Purple is a good color."
"Why thank you. I like your hair."
"Thank you. I just got it cut. It's red. My eyes are blue. Blue is the best color. I'm the only one in our house who has eyes the color blue."
"Except your father," I say dryly.
"My father has blue eyes. But they're not as pretty as mine. I do not love brown eyes. But I do love your earrings."
And so on. You may notice that if it wasn't for the shortness of the sentences, she would sound like a middle aged woman as well. I'm hoping she keeps up this trend--finally, the plan of having children instead of financially planning for my old age looks like it's working out.
Cause I gotta tell you, it's not looking like Chicken's gonna do it for me. I spent forty five minutes last night, critiquing her short story for English, (because a third person critique is part of the grade) and today? During English? She refused to turn it in. Why? BECAUSE I USED THE NICKNAME "CHICKEN" IN THE CRITIQUE!
I was so mad, I e-mailed her teacher and asked her to let Chicken turn it in-- but only if she agreed to CALL HER CHICKEN FOR THE REST OF THE SCHOOL YEAR. *grumble grumble grumble* I mean REALLY. Gonna beat that kid to death with a stack of five pages of short story interpretation of Fahrenheit 451, I really fucking am.
Phonebook is doing VERY well-- and I'm so grateful for everyone who gave this little story a shot. Make sure you let me know-- or rate it on goodreads. If you DO visit, you may find a very short, VERY DIRTY Adrian/Bracken story I wrote for the hell of it. It does have (as much good erotica does) a point, but make no doubt--it IS erotica, and it's fairly hardcore m/m, in a way I don't usually do, even in my most off the charts stuff. But if you're in the mood for it, go check it out!
And now, I need to go relax. Seriously-- a lot of work goin' on during this vacation!