I. This morning, driving Daughter to school:
Daughter: Dad, you drink Coke.
Me: Yes, I do sometimes.
Daughter: Coke isn’t good for you. We talked about that in class.
Daughter: Beer isn’t good for you, either. We talked about it on Sunday.
Me: That’s right.
Daughter: You drink beer too.
Me: (Pause) What!?
Daughter: (Repeats, very seriously) You drink beer, Dad.
Me: I don’t drink beer, Daughter.
Daughter: Yes you do. I’ve seen you drink beer.
Me: (Curious about where this is going) Well, I drink root beer sometimes.
Daughter: (nods, vindicated) Yep. That’s the kind of beer you drink. Beer isn’t good for you.
At which point I begin to wonder how much of this she may have announced to the Primary, and whether the qualifier “root” was used at any time . . .
II. Last night late, helping wife with sewing project.
“Can you run to Wal-Mart quickly and pick up some things for this?”
“Okay, I need four packages of black, quarter-inch, double-fold bias tape . . .”
Which is how I ended up standing in line with a big biker dude who had a Harley shirt and long scraggly hair and tattoos, and was buying liquor. I was right behind him, with my shopping basket full of bright pink and yellow bias tape (they were out of black, and I had called back to find out what to get instead). It was a slow-moving midnight line that lasted at least ten minutes, and I was certain that at some point, biker dude would notice the guy behind him with the basket of pink ribbons — at which point, he would probably kick my butt, just on principle.
Biker dude never looked back. I survived.