Little of this…

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Here’s a thing you may not know about me — unless you’re my husband or my dad, and whoo-boy, do they know this — I fall apart when I’m under stress.  I don’t just mean I feel a little under the weather, I mean I fall apart.  I pull muscles, I get migraines, I throw up.  This time around, I have developed a painful sty on my left eye, and my back aches like I’ve been participating in manual labor (which I have so not been doing.)  Also, I have a cold that won’t go away. 

I am stressed.

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This morning, while driving the kids to school, a plethora of inappropriate songs came on the radio.  First, it was Prodigy with Smack my Bitch Up.  Then came Beastie Boys with No Sleep To Brooklyn.  (Admittedly, this is a song the kids have heard several times before.  I just hope they’ve never caught on to the lines, “Our manager’s crazy, he always smokes dust,” and, “MCAs in the back ’cause he’s skeezin’ with a whore.”)  And then the song Detachable Penis by King Missile rounded out the trio.  Luckily, the kids were talking and I had turned the radio down to almost inaudible volume.  I don’t think they even heard a word. 

Satellite radio: the king of inappropriate school drop-off songs. 

(And today I’m going to get some weird hits now that I’ve just typed all those words up there.)

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Last night my son, in the throes of video game induced excitement, tried to say the word enemies.  He declared, “We have to get the emenies; the eminemenies,” before he finally blurted out, “The bad guys!  We have to get the bad guys!”  By the time he said it, it was too late.  The bad guys had gotten them first.

My son, enemies is his enemy.

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