In my defense, I didn’t know that snark was a communicable disease.
See, our oldest son has been driving Hubby crazy lately, due to his tendency to answer any and all spoken statements with a smart-aleck comeback. Exasperated with the non-stop barrage of one-liners and sarcastic comments, Hubby looked at me, raised a frustrated eyebrow and growled, “He gets it from you, you know.”
Sure, I can sometimes be the teensiest bit sarcastic. And, sure, when it came to envisioning what sort of mom I might become, I was never the least bit tempted to emulate Carol Brady or Olivia Walton, but I definitely wanted to be Roseanne. And, yes, when Miss Teen Wonder sent roughly forty seven thousand texts reminding me to go online and get her a pair of Mika tickets because, THEY GO ON SALE AT NOON, for the love of god, and he is absolutely the dreamiest bit of floppy-haired pop star around, I might have responded by texting back thusly:
Sold out 🙁
Geez. You would think she’d never met me. My assurances that I had, in fact, secured the coveted tickets ( “JK. OMG. Srsly.”) did not smooth the waters and she maintained a stubborn radio silence for hours. When I finally convinced her that I was really, really sorry she broke down and asked, “So, how much do I owe you?”
You’d think I would have learned my lesson, but no.
“For 16 yrs of room and board? $113,000.”
I can’t help it, I swear. I hear a straight line and I must follow through to the rimshot. Of course, the danger with raising your kids like Roseanne Conner is that you end up with a house full of Darlenes.
|Every blessed one of my kids.|
I came home from a run yesterday, and asked our son if there had been any phone calls for me.
“Um….someone called about, um…redoing your kitchen…? I didn’t get the name.” Then fell all over himself laughing when I believed for one, brief, glorious minute that my repeated attempts to muscle my way onto the HGTV show, I Hate My Kitchen (because, I really, really do) had finally achieved success.
Rotten kid. He takes after his father, you know.