St. Louis Rams suck.
I was forced to rise at a ridiculously early hour this morning after staying up a little too late the night before. Tawnya worked into the wee hours, making dessert for the girls in her Bunko group... she's hosting a party tonight for twenty players... and I tried to keep her company, but I forced myself into bed prematurely to avoid the morning headache which accompanies lack of sleep.
My wife is serving homemade lasagna, salad, dinner rolls... and dream pie & fudge for dessert. And of course, I can't have any. "It's for the girls!"
So the boys and I will head to Frailey's to watch Monday night football and drink beers. And I won't bring her any.
Mom's here visiting for the week, so we're telling stories and catching up. I was just thinking about fears our parents instill in us, as I was handing her a particularly robust pair of scissors. I began thinking about how long she terrorized me by making me believe I could possibly fall on a pair, driving them deep into my own chest... even though I haven't fallen in that manner since I was - oh, 6. As if somehow my wrist would encounter a strange centrifugal force and turn at just the right moment (called the "shear instant") and become a deadly dagger of death. An inadvertent self-serve bayonet.
Remember Mom telling you how it is dangerous to lick the peanut butter knife? Again, as if you could find a way to fall face-first directly onto it, driving it deep into your skull via your PB&J hole... causing severe life-threatening esophageal lacerations.
Deadly, horrifying pseudo-SWORDS, those butter knives.
Talk about irrational mother-imposed fear.