8-year-old: Hey, mom – wait. You’ve got something under your arm there.
Me [raises arms]: I still don’t see anything.
8-year-old [walks closer to me, gasps, puts his hand to his mouth]: What the…? What. Is. That?
10-year-old [looks up from her book and in her best disaffected Maggie Gyllenhall voice] : Did you forget to shave your armpits again?
Me: Listen, you guys don’t even know what was going on today. The toddler was freaking out over some spider, the dog peed all over himself, ketchup got all over the walls…
10-year-old: What does that have to do with your armpits?
Me: I’m sending you to the gulag, Comrade.
10-year-old: Why are you talking in that creepy Irish voice?
Me: It’s not Irish, it’s Russian. RUSSIAN!!
The first time I heard Jeff Buckley sing, I think I cried for three days straight, my tears flooding the streets of Los Angeles with regret and torment.
I was definitely crying this afternoon when Jermaine Jackson assaulted my ears with this ditty. Why oh why do I know all the words to the worst songs ever written? If there was ever a Jeopardy category called Name That Lyric From That Shitty Song, I’d sweep the whole thing.