Now that the water’s been mopped out of the basement, my husband has turned his attention to other matters. And Holy Heartstopper, Batman, he posted! On a topic near and dear to his heart: booze. And he might even qualify for inclusion in the Xanga Ladies’ Auxiliary Recipe Exchange, except for that not being a lady part. Well, he can borrow my chick ID if necessary.
In other news, my 11-year-old, who doesn’t understand why I nicknamed her “Tigger” even though she’s Tiggery as all get out, has been reading this here blog. That means I can no longer use, shall we say, colorful language, because there’s a jar on the counter where she collects fines for adult verbal malfeasance. She tries to, anyway. The major malfeasor in the house refuses to pay. (No, “malfeasor” is not a real word, but then neither is “felicify,” and Tigger had to memorize that in school, so I can malfease if I want to.)
Tig thinks my blog is hysterically funny. This could be because
a. It IS hysterically funny
b. She’s weird
c. She’s humoring her old mom
d. Let’s just go with a., shall we?
Did you hear that? That was a firework of some sort, exploding somewhere in my neighborhood, with more to come I’m sure. Yes, unauthorized fireworks being set off by non-professionals is strictly illegal around here, and yet, KABOOM, til all hours of the night. Malfeasance run amok!
Well, have an excellent Independence Day, internet friends, and please don’t set off any f^&%$ fireworks near my house. There may be fines.