April 22, 2009
I'm a woman with many buttons. Screeeecccch!!!! Did I just call myself "woman"? Ouch! Might as well be ma'am. Let's try again. I'm a young, un-wrinkled, ageless beauty with many buttons.
What are buttons supposed to do? They're made to trigger something. They're made to cause reactions. They're made to go off.
If you're one of my Yahoos (which obviously you're not, since I've grounded the kiddies from reading my blog in that it might reveal who their mother really is)... again, if you're one of my Yahoos, note that my largest and most reactive button is the one you press when you cannot find your shoes.
At our house there are two (not one, mind you) TWO designated receptacles for shoes. The shoe basket and the closet of your ownership. I don't enforce this rule because I'm a neat-nazi. It's not the clutter that bugs me. What bothers me about the lack of shoe placement is the mad where-the-hell-are-the-shoes dash that happens 30 seconds before you need to be somewhere.
Yes... my can't-find-the-shoes button causes an eruptive genetic outpouring from eighteen of my angriest ancestors.
Bad morning. Now we're going to watch Yahoo #1 do his walk-a-thon in sandals. Natural consequences folks... natural consequences.