This evening after Meredith’s volleyball game, the four of us went out for dinner with my mom and dad to celebrate my dad’s 71st birthday. (Feel free to wish him a happy birthday. 71 is a big thing. 71 means that you pay for dinner and deliver rice krispy treats to the granddaughters, even though it’s your birthday. 71 means that even if you hurt your back earlier in the day, you still venture out to watch a bunch of fifth graders play volleyball. 71 is good.)
As we were eating our salads, my mom looked at me and said, “You’re showing a lot of Cleveland.”
Me: Oh! Yikes!
Mom: Yep. You’ve been showing cleavage all night.
Me: Sorry about that. I haven’t worn this shirt in over a year, but since it’s getting cold outside, this afternoon I decided to pull out my shirt and my boots.
Me: Yep. Boobs.
Mom: Hey! Yesterday I went to the makeup store, and when I put my stuff on the counter, the girl working the register said, “Nice bras.”
Mom: Brows. Like, eyebrows.
Earlier this week, I told Meredith to drink water with her soup so she doesn’t get aphrodisiac. (Clearly, I meant Dehydrated.) A few years ago, I spent five minutes telling a story about a woodpecker, and throughout the entire story I referred to that bird as a peckerhead. On accident.
Apparently, my baking skills and sense of humor came from my dad, and my craftiness and inability to speak coherently came from my mom.