So is it more lame
a) that my husband gave me an ergonomic snow scoop for Valentine's Day
b) that I freakin' LOVE it?
I have a faint suspicion that my book addiction may have been transmitted to my son -- something about the way his pupils burst into flame as he grabbed my shirt, lifted me a foot off the floor and snarled "we are going to Chapters to get volume two of Diary of a Wimpy Kid RIGHT NOW!"
I feel fat today. I also feel stupid for worrying about being fat -- it's the gift that keeps on giving. I keep wondering when and where all this stupidity got started. Can you imagine that first cavewoman turning to her husband and saying "Hey Ug, does this tiger skin make my ass look big?"
We walked into First Choice at that golden moment today -- it was empty, and right after my kids' butts hit the haircutting chairs a bunch of people walked in (I did manage not to thumb my nose at them and go nah-nah-nah. I'm all class). After the nice Asian man finished cutting her bangs and flipped them under with the brush, Eve looked in the mirror and said in tones of the greatest disgust, "oh great! I look like my MOTHER again!"
So there you have it. I've turned my son into a drooling book maniac, I'm fat and uninspired and I have bad bangs. But I have a kickass snow shovel.