I have to confess something. I enjoy reading Anne Lamott. Okay, okay, I know that makes me more touchy-feely than I usually admit. She is very lovey. She talks about mystical things. She freely admits to praying (although she uses the F-word frequently in her books about “faith”. I like this in a person.) She talks about breathing. She is very real, and I admire this. She talks about her parents and her son with a mix of love and frustration and grumpiness. She admits, in public, in her writing, to sometimes being angry, sometimes disliking her loved ones, to having to work very hard to forgive them. I like to think I’m like her in a lot of ways, but I don’t share this ability. I can’t easily look at someone I love, look them in the eyes, and say “I’m really angry with you.” “I am mad.” “That was a bad thing you did. To me.” Instead, I’m the sort that says, “Oh, gosh, I’m sure you didn’t mean to run over my dog. It’s okay. I was meaning to get rid of that old thing soo...
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I can just hear them back at their lair...
"Sweet! That yuppiemobile was loaded!"
"Hey dipwad, help me unload this stuff."
"In a second, grandma! Check out this GPS!"
"OK if you're not gonna help, at least dry the tools and put them away."
"Where does the jack go?"
"Oh criminy, do I have to do everything? Move over, clown. There. Now hand me the lug wrench."
"It's not here."
"Idiot. Look in back."
"I'm telling you, it's not here. I looked everywhere."
"I swear to god, if you left it behind... I'll do the next one with your teeth."
"I could go back for it."
"You're a moron. Help me with these wheels."
Also, um. I don't think thugs say "criminy" much these days.
:-)
Why art thou leering at Marsh's ......
Sorry, but else would a rearview do? :)