Who gets shotgun on the ride home.
Who got it last time.
Who had it all last week, for crissake.
Who left the empty Cheetos bag in the back seat for someone else to clean up (righteous indignation being best expressed by flinging said Cheetos bag into the way back – indicating that mom apparently is the “someone else”).
Who gets what flavor of sucker at the drive-up teller (hey, parents of toddlers, you actually think this phase goes away? Lookit how cute you are).
Coke versus Pepsi.
Alien versus Predator.
Matrix versus Terminator.
Touching someone’s hair … or sleeve … or stuff.
The remote possibility of even thinking about touching anything belonging to or in the immediate vicinity of another person.
Whether a reality television show where you kidnap someone who knows nothing about cars, and teach them all about cars in an hour or less would be exciting.
Whether you could domesticate a tiger if you raised it from birth,
… if it were legal to keep a tiger as a pet,
… and the tiger had a dog brain transplanted into it.
Setting the dinner table.
Arm wrestling while setting the dinner table.
Eating dinner too loudly.
Breathing too loudly.
Breathing AT ALL.
No YOUR face.
Nuh uh, YOUR FACE!
EVERYBODY’S freaking FACE needs to be out of HERE and in his OWN ROOM in the next FIVE MINUTES or mom’s going to LOSE IT!
That’s better. Cocktail, anyone?
Did you catch that I’m giving away an autographed copy of Motherhood, May Cause Drowsiness? It’s true. Details here.
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