Tuesday, August 5, 2014

metal chickens and kale smoothies

AB: I want a smoothie.

Me: Didn't you have a smoothie this morning for breakfast?

AB: Nooooo...

(I know this to be false because Messy McMesserson always leaves evidence behind.)

Me: You can have a smoothie, but it has to have spinach or kale in it.

(Simmer down. You can hardly taste it. Besides, dinner tonight will be at a baseball park, and there is nothing green there, unless you count the grass on the field.)

Apparently, adding green to a smoothie is comparable to eating chilled monkey brains, which should cause distress, by the way, because at that very moment, tears erupted, and a dramatic fall to the ground ensued.

AB: Fine, health freak. All my friends call you a health freak.

Me: Like I care what any of your friends call me. I wear the badge proudly. (We'll address name calling at another time.)

AB: {glare}

Me: {smile} I am proud of being healthy.

AB: {pouting, extracting soggy spinach from smoothie}

Me: Just leave it in there. If you're not gonna drink it, I'll save it for myself and drink it tomorrow.

You'd have thought the world as we know it was getting ready to end, although she'd be poorly prepared should that ever happen, as her typical responses to situations that cause distress are a) crying and b) falling to the ground in a heap.

Guess who just got an invite to Junior Cotillion? Couldn't have come at a better time.

As we speak, feet are stomping up the steps (sans smoothie, thank you very much) and a bedroom door is slamming.

And anyway, wasn't I just in a situation like this a couple of weeks ago involving ice cream? And why do our fights always end up being like a stand-off, Fight Night-style? These are questions that I have no answer to. However, my sister sent me a blog post about a woman who argued with her husband over new towels, and he ended up with a large metal chicken in his yard (it's funny-read it!).  A lesson on why we should learn to pick our battles. (Don't write me to let me know how much she drops the f-bomb. I read it. I know.)

As for picking my own battles, I guess I'm going to have to go break the news to Miss Indignant that the basement needs to be cleaned, and guess who's going to go do it?

I feel a metal chicken coming on.

No comments:

Post a Comment