Clothing Is Over Rated, Especially In Church

So this supposed to be the already deferred part two of the Liebster Award post but then I did something idiotic and embarrassing. And sometimes humiliating things need to be shared.

I have this shirt, my mother in law picked it out which means two things; A) It fits me nicely and B) It looks very attractive to boot.

Zippers, the anti-button. (Photo Credit :

Zippers, the anti-button. (Photo Credit :

However the shirt in question has twenty buttons. Twenty very small buttons, arranged in teeny, tiny, impossible-to-button pairs. Who has time for that? I mean, that’s why we invented the zipper. That being said, a shirt that zipped would not fit me nearly as well or look as dapper, so occasionally I spend five minutes buttoning this shirt and then another five minutes re-buttoning it when I realize that I’ve skipped a button or three.

For whatever reason I generally wear  this garment on Sundays, which means that I’m sitting in the pews of my church with my head bowed during the first prayer realizing that I’m looking at my naval because I’ve missed the sixth button from the bottom in my hurry to get out the door. This sounds bad but in the grand scheme of my history of being partially clothed in church it’s relatively low on the totem pole of embarrassment.

My favourite church flashing was not my fault. I was sitting in the first pew with a toddler on my lap while wearing a knee length silk skirt. I loved the feel of that skirt, as did the toddler, which was why she was still clutching the hem of it when I stood up to sing while holding her, effectively giving the choir and the ministers an unsolicited show of my pink and white “Sunday I feel fine” bikini briefs. It’s my hope that they appreciated my commitment to chronological accuracy with my days of the week underpants.

The next time I was poorly dressed for church was a combination of poor time management and dress choices. The laundry mountain on the morning of the infamous “Slutty Secretary” outfit reached nearly to the ceiling. Eschewing the nice feeling silk skirt, I pulled on an old, scratchy one to match a top that I rarely wear. After the fifth extended hug from an elderly man after the service, I realized that my shirt showed way too much cleavage. Roscoe was nice enough to point out after I arrived home that in addition to this, the skirt I had chosen was see-through. My point being that the elders seeing my belly button isn’t a big deal when viewed in the broader picture of my church nudity.

But this past week Roscoe and I were really late for church. A quarter of the way through buttoning the teeny, tiny buttons I gave up and decided I would finish in the car while Roscoe drove.

And that would have been fine had it not been raining. “It’s pouring” called Roscoe. “Noted!” I called back as I hurriedly shrugged on my poncho over my partially buttoned shirt.

I was drenched walking from the house to the car. It was still misting as we pulled up to the church so I kept my poncho on. Hence it wasn’t until I sat down in the service, directly in front of one of the ministers when I realized that my shirt still wasn’t buttoned. Please note this occurred after I hugged a church elder.

English: Hat and bikini.

If using my dress code, you can go straight from the beach to church in this outfit. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“Oh My God!” I stage whispered over my inadvertent nakedness. Roscoe elbowed me in the ribs and jerked his head towards the elderly minister sitting directly behind us. Frantically, giggling over my idiocy I did up the remaining sixteen buttons.

Needless to say I’m an incredible role model. A pillar of the community. And also an accidental nudist apparently.

Artificial Body Holes and Bravery

Despite the fact that we ceased to be students some time ago, Roscoe and I still live in the student ghetto. Our miniature porch faces onto the backyard (or rather the basketball court cum parking lot) of a frat house. Across the street is a hovel which houses, by our count, five young men who enjoy shoving foreign objects through all their extremities and tattooing the rest of their visible epidermal layer.

Head banging Brain Muncher

Our neighbour, who rarely turns down an offer of banana bread. Photo credit: Munir Hamdan)

They also take pleasure in blasting angry death metal music while I make dinner. Most of the time I don’t mind strains of “%&#K THE WORLD AND EVERYOOOOOOOOOONE” followed by intense guitar solos, but after a long day I have been known to don the ear protecting head phones worn by most construction workers.

With the exception of discovering a partially eaten hamburger on our lawn or having to walk the long route to the park while the metal heads try and film “a sweet sweet trick” on the sidewalk and part of the road, both the frat boys and the metallers are good neighbours.

The end of the school year is approaching for university students and so the other night the metallers were throwing a party. Roscoe was on call at the hospital so our family friend Gordy* was over to have dinner and help me guard against a ghost break in. Living in an eighty year old house does unfortunately come with downsides.

So Gordy and I were just returning from our after dinner walk to the river when I noticed all the people milling on the metaller’s lawn, beside a minivan which was also on the lawn. University cities love to ticket vehicles parked on lawns, it’s an easy way to add to the city budget. However this was the end of the metaller’s year, so even though I didn’t necessarily share their love of head banging guitar solos and swear words I didn’t want their revelry to be marred by a seventy dollar ticket.

So I marched my five foot two self right over to the group of them. “Oi!” I said.

Just as a reference when entering a new culture it’s important to use language from that culture to help integrate yourself with it’s people, hence my “Oi!” to begin the exchange.

“Oi!” I said as I approached a young man with spacers in his ears so large that a baby’s fist could have gone straight through them. “You’ll get a ticket if you park there, that’s my house.” I gestured to the red brick building across the street. “You’re welcome to park in the driveway as long as you leave me space to get to work in the morning.”

All of the young men turned to face me. Collectively they had enough hardware in their young heads to open a store. “Thank you so much!’ they exclaimed.

Gordy stood the whole time a short distance away, ready to jump in at any moment should the youths turn and pull a shiv out of one of their many zippered pant pockets.

“I can’t believe you just walked up to them like that” he said. Maybe it was brave, or maybe it was my near sightedness and forgotten glasses that prevented me from seeing the hypodermic needles full of meth they were holding, but in my experience if someone walks up to you offering free parking and you want free parking, you almost never can go wrong. So Gordy and I listened as screamo metal wafted in through hundred year old windows for two hours afterwards and then Gordy left for the evening. The ghosts of course then moved in, rattling our thirty year old fridge until it was all but on it’s side and tapped tree branches on the windows.

*Although Gordy is arguably the second biggest fan of The Great Unwashed his name has been changed because at some point I may want to talk smack about him and so it’s best if he has only an inkling that Gordy might be his nom de plume.

Talking smack about people may very well be The Great Unwashed’s new schtick. After finishing both the partially clothed in church post and the award post I shall be doing a new series entitled “Diana may in fact be a lemur”.

This Post Was Supposed To Be About Me Being Partially Clothed In Church But Really Should Have Been The Awards Post Part Two, However Now It’s A Flow Of Consciousness. There’s a Medal For You At The Bottom If You Read It.

It’s summer, I’m sticking to everything. Including my dining room table. I’m pondering whether I should attempt to patent myself as a new form of glue.

“Human shaped glue; it’s unwieldy, not remotely convenient and also comes off when you pull hard enough. But it does make a satisfying “SHHHHHLOOOOOOP” sound in the process.”

I probably should not go into sales. Or marketing.

There is one week of school left for Canadians; the American children started their summer vacation three weeks ago. Perhaps it’s in my imaginary children’s best interest if we move to America. But only for the first part of the year because the American children go back early in August. Or maybe I have this completely backwards and my family should move to America from August to December and then come back to Canada from January to July. It’s like free child care, only with extra moving costs.

I’m not sure how I’m going to sell that last idea to my husband.

Getting back to the idea of me as an inventor. I have blisters on the bottoms of my toes from wearing high heels for an entire day. My sister told me I should have put preventative band aids on my feet. I wasn’t aware they made band aids for the soles of your toes. A trip to the drug store and a strange look from the sales associate when I inquired about such a product confirmed my suspicions.

I’ve concluded from this experience that I need to create such a device. Not only would it save me from wheeling my way around on a computer chair the day after I dress up in my Badgley Mischkas but I also feel like it would make an excellent conversation starter at dinner parties. “Why hello there, I see you work in sales. Funny that we should meet, I’m the inventor of “Toe Toppers” for people who are very bad at wearing high heels, yet need to on occasion.”

You’ve now reached the end of this blog post. I’m really sorry to have to tell you this but there’s no medal here. The fact that there are two periods in my title probably should have tipped you off. Someone who doesn’t realize that titles should be succinct descriptions of text without periods likely doesn’t have the organizational skills to coordinate handing out medals to those who finish reading said overly punctuated work.

Also I’ve promised for two posts in a row that I was going to write about bar fights. At this point it’s probably safe to conclude that I’m a dishonest jerk. And as long as we’re being truthful here I should state that I’ve never actually been in a bar fight. When my girlfriends and I were in university, we made friends with a young man who was the size of a house. Literally. It would have been a very small house mind you, possibly a cardboard one in Elbonia the fictional land of mud from the Dilbert cartoons but a house nonetheless.

My point was that when you go dancing with a man the size of a house in Elbonia or a large porta-jon anywhere else, you aren’t really bothered by anyone much less the target of an airborne beer bottle.

Mrs. August Belmont; Aug. Belmont; and Mrs. Bu...

Normally WordPress suggests photos to go along with your post however the algorithm broke because it came up with; a pair of high heels, Celine Dion, an antique photo of little known Royals and a map. It’s ok WordPress, sometimes I’m not entirely sure of what to make of the circus in my head either. (Photo credit: The Library of Congress)

So I read this to Roscoe and got to that last sentence and he said “Keep reading I’m listening” and I replied “No that’s it, it’s too hot to write anymore and I need to go invent toe bandaids.”







Roscoe tired of listening to me complain about the blisters on the bottoms of my toes and offered to get me “Toe band aids” if I sat in a chair and closed my eyes. Desperate for relief I sat and waited. This was Roscoe’s solution. That’s sixty thousand dollars worth of doctoring right there. And it’s all mine.

Please enjoy my pedicure, unlike Roscoe’s bandage job, my perfectly polished toe nails help ease my pain.

Please enjoy my pedicure, unlike Roscoe’s bandage job, my perfectly polished toe nails help ease my pain.

This Post Was Supposed To Involve Barfights And Then It Was About Me Being Half Naked In Church And Now It’s A Note To My Husband

At the end of every work day what I want most is a glass of wine. What I need to do most is to go for a run. Sometimes wants and needs conflict and I consume half a glass of wine before lacing up my shoes.

Sometimes this is a good idea. Other times I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast and I’m approximately the size of a large tween. This has the expected outcome. The following is a note I left for Roscoe written with Sharpie marker on an envelope offering 2 for 1 pizza coupons.


Dear Roscoe,

I’ve gone running. Drunk.

I’ll try not to cross any major roads.

Love you,

The Great Unwashed.


When I arrived home Roscoe was quite upset. Not over my inability to run in a straight line but over the company I keep on runs. Occasionally while jogging through my favourite park I am chased by homeless people and meth heads. He argued that these people made running in an inebriated state a poor choice.

I countered that I went running in my second favourite park, which also happens to be the meth head’s second favourite park, so they weren’t there to make haphazard attempts to keep up with my wobbly pace. Besides I can’t figure out why Roscoe is so worried about a few disheveled people chasing me when I have yet to be caught.

Part two of the award post is coming, however I did show up in church only half dressed last weekend, so that story needs to be told first, some things are so embarrassing that they need to be celebrated.

While I’m In Trouble I Might As Well Wear The Hot Pink Tights My Husband Hates

The following conversation occurred multiple times this week.


Roscoe “You know it’s Father’s Day this weekend?”


The Great Unwashed indignantly “Yes.” Even though I had completely forgotten but sometimes I like to be the reasonable one who is always right for a change.


Roscoe “Don’t forget to call or do something for your Dad.”


The Great Unwashed “I already have something planned.” I didn’t but Roscoe has a habit of picking out the perfect gift months in advance then wrapping it up beautifully on the anniversary/birthday/holiday in question and I wanted him to think that for once I had too.


Roscoe “Don’t forget that your Dad is leaving Friday so you need to do it before then.”


The Great Unwashed in an aggravated tone “I know!”


So this conversation happened a couple of times this week. As I hadn’t actually mentioned my made up gift once, Roscoe came to the correct conclusion that I didn’t have anything. This led to more reminders, which led to more white lies on my part.


Hence I might have been really embarrassed and in just a hint of trouble for forgetting yet another occasion last night when my Dad called to tell me he was about to leave the country for two weeks and wanted to say he loved me and would miss me on Father’s Day. However luckily I had gone to bed at eight so the call went straight to voicemail. Roscoe left for the States early this morning so he didn’t hear my cursing when I listened to the message from my dad. I have exactly four hours to sort out something a gift before Roscoe returns.


My Ideas For A Father’s Day Card And Gift So far




I love you so much that my deep affection is so entwined with my being that I forget that it exists and therefore forget to acknowledge it.






Dear Dad,


Once upon a time you forgot me at a Garden Store. This year I forgot Father’s Day- shall we call it even?






Dear Dad,


I’m a bad daughter, you should probably trade me in for a new one.  I’d go for a less disorganized model.






Dear Dad,


England, Ireland  or wherever you are going celebrates Father’s Day in September. In keeping with the customs of the country you are visiting we’ll celebrate then.


This may be a complete lie. Also I’m sorry that I can’t remember the country you’re travelling to.



Although it appears that the child is the one having the most fun, what you cannot see is the joyful smile of the forty year old man who spent three hours in the hot sun assembling this fantastic gift. Photo Courtesy of

Although it appears that the child is the one having the most fun, what you cannot see is the joyful smile of the forty year old man who spent three hours in the hot sun assembling this fantastic gift.
Photo Courtesy of

Dear Dad,


Once we bought you a giant trampoline for Father’s Day. You never once used it. It was a pretty selfish gift. I decided to do one better this Father’s Day and not buy anything for either you or myself. You’re welcome.






Dear Dad,


My only talent as a daughter lies in my creative writing ability. I hope you enjoyed this belated Father’s Day post. I love you. Always






Roscoe has returned from the States with a shiny new stethoscope. While he was gone I thought of two ideas for a Father’s Day gift- golf clubs and a new fishing reel.


It’s unfortunate that my father doesn’t golf or fish.


The wall.

I’m going to put on my new hot pink tights that Roscoe hates, text my Dad a link to this post and then own up to the fact that I didn’t have anything planned.


Hopefully my tights will be so loud that Roscoe won’t be able to hear the sound of me forgetting yet another holiday.


Neil Patrick Harris Declined My Offer To Host This Award Post

However the show must go on, and this is an awards show. For me. Just me. Here at The Great Unwashed we are super self involved but we are also about family. Big family. That last sentence may have been foreshadowing. Or it would be if Roscoe would let me have my way. On with the show.


Dear Faithful readers,

The day has finally arrived. I was nominated for an award. Not a big award. More like WordPress’ version of a participation award but gosh darn it, it’s an award. And I’m chuffed.  Now there are multiple steps to follow for this award, so many that I’ve decided to break it into two blog posts.

First you need to acknowledge and thank the person who nominated you. So thank you Erica Funi of  Finding The Funi, I do so appreciate being nominated, I was so thrilled that I called my Mom, who already knew because she went on my site and saw, but didn’t call me because that’s the kind of mother she is. Actually she may have texted me in her excitement, I’ll have to check my phone to see if there is a cryptic “k” from the day that you nominated me. This is my mother’s electronic way of communicating with the world- one indecipherable letter at a time. Sometimes she’ll put a “u” or an “i” in there just to mix it up.

Getting back to the award. Erica is a wonderful writer. She also has a nice smile. And I have it on good authority that she does not smell. Erica, I don’t think I could have written a more winning recommendation if I tried. Thanks again for nominating me, I did my best to answer your questions which was of course the second step in the process.


What is your biggest pet peeve?

People asking about my pet peeves.  No that’s not true, like most people, I love to be questioned about the things that are bothering me. Most recently my biggest pet peeve is Roscoe’s refusal to take a second wife. I’ve gotten into the show “Big Love” of late and the concept of polygamy is really growing on me. I just love the idea of someone else cleaning and grocery shopping and vacuuming. Roscoe claims that I don’t fully understand the idea of multiple spouses.

Car-mel or Car-a-mel?


Are they both edible? Yes? Then why are we having this conversation and not eating sweets?


If you could trade places with anyone for a day, who would it be?

I can tell you who it wouldn’t be – my imaginary sister wife. I left her alllll of the laundry. The pile is taller than me, which isn’t saying much, but it’s also taller than Roscoe. I’m going to consider that an accomplishment. We’re out of laundry detergent but I’m sure my imaginary sister wife can take care of that.


What is the last website you visited?

Hold The Condiments. Occasionally I feel it necessary to send windy, rambling messages to other bloggers. Before that I wrote a fan letter to the Byronic Man.

Wait did I answer the question? No matter, moving on.


Toilet paper. Over or under?

Once again, I think you’ve missed the forest for the trees, or in this case the forest for the products of the pulp and paper industry. As long as you have TP, you’re good. Unless of course you have a house full of riotous teenagers and it’s Halloween, in which case you’re probably going to be out of toilet paper shortly. Also you’ll owe your neighbours a cake. I’d hide the eggs before you start baking too.


He's cool.

He’s cool.

What was the first concert you went to?

I feel like you don’t want me to answer Raffi.   I’ll go with someone much cooler instead- Hanson.


What is your favorite quote?



Is that not a quote?


They’re definitely cooler.  (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

How do you take your coffee?

In litres, preferably in the morning.

Or in gallons for all my Southern reader friends.


What are you having (or did you have) for dinner tonight?

A sandwich, I was supposed to be making wheatberry salad, but then I started watching “Big Love”, and answering a never ending series of questions.


What is your favorite thing about yourself?

I feel like this is more than eleven questions, or possibly I’m answering more than eleven questions, or maybe it just feels longer because I keep asking questions.

Let’s say my ability to count.


What is your guilty pleasure?

Polygamy, but I haven’t actually done that, I just imagine other women cleaning my house and then making me litres of coffee. So let’s go with eating all of Roscoe’s special yogurt out of the fridge.


Stay tuned for part two of the Liebster award posts. There’s going to be a bar fight.

NEWSFLASH –An Unwashed Addition!

My family was always enormous. After five years of being together Roscoe prides himself on knowing eighty percent of my relative’s names. However a new member has been added! So Roscoe will be back down to a seventy five percent accuracy rate.

Jessica, Carter’s Mommy* had been pregnant for some time. Nine months in fact. And last Saturday she had the baby. Tragically none of my names for the newborn were chosen, even though Carter has two mommies and I’m one of them.

Not really, however people at the Winnipeg Folk Festival probably thought as much last summer. Like any self respecting festival of the arts, the place was packed with same sex families. Walking around, Jessica and I each holding one of Carter’s small hands we looked a lot like the happy gay couples wandering about with their children. Also I totally claimed the role of the fun parent, mostly because I was unwashed, covered head to toe in dirt and invariably about half of me would be sopping wet at any given time.

While Jessica ran around volunteering for the festival, Carter and I just ran around, at top speed. However unlike many of the fun Dad parents, I didn’t eject Carter from his stroller when we hit one of the inevitable tree roots embedded in the ground on our runs. Prior to these off roading sprints I would  securely strap Carter into his chariot.

Other children at the festival were not always privy to such precautions and as a result I witnessed a couple of child flings.

it's not the thing you fling, but the fling itself

Not unlike on Northern Exposure when they flung a piano, the children soared into the air. But instead of an art piece, it was more about comedy. Although what Chris In The Morning said still applied

 ” It’s not the thing you fling, but the fling itself.”                                              It didn’t really matter who was being flung, it was still hilarious.(Photo credit: tnarik)

 Dads moved across the festival fields, squiring gaggles of children about in buggies, then creating human catapults using said wagons and an obstinate rock.  Into the air and over the sides the children would tumble. Unless it was a front facing stroller, invariably it would take the Dads a second to realize that their load was lighter for a reason. The children would lie sprawled across the ground, dazed by the sun and their sudden flight. I of course would be the jerk who was splitting their side laughing. The Dads would then gather the kids up, placing them back into the stroller or wagon and continue on their way, buckles swaying devil-may-care next to small torsos and paying no attention to the various tree roots and potholes on the path. It was the best entertainment to be had at the festival, aside from the music of course.

Replica catapult at Château des Baux, France

Baby transportation device or instrument of siege? Sometimes it’s difficult to tell the two apart. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Anyway, back to the new addition to my family. So despite being mistaken for one of Carter’s two mommies both of my name choices were turned down. I offered up two reasonable options, one for a boy, one for a girl.

Mini Carter for a boy, because Carter is such a great name, so why not have two. Admittedly it would be confusing, however the amount of name yelling would be reduced by half at a crowded playground. Also the “Mini” could be used when you need to distinguish between the two.And for a girl I suggested Cartera. Also for simplicity’s sake. For whatever reason, Jessica and her husband vetoed both of these ideas.

Regardless, my happiness over the new arrival is boundless. I’m looking forward to flying out to meet the little bundle of joy and I shall promise forwards, backwards and upside down that I shall strap the new family member firmly into the stroller before running with it, no matter how amusing small human projectiles are.

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of those who didn’t actually want to be mistaken for being in a couple with me. Seeing as Jessica is all for gay rights, gay marriage, gay adoption and gay children, I think the problem was me. Maybe it’s the height difference, or maybe it was the fact that I kept telling people I hadn’t showered in a week and a half. Whatever the reason, Jessica didn’t want to be falsely identified as my other unwashed half, so I can assume she doesn’t want her name on here either.

Also names have been changed to protect the innocent and under aged. But not the small, at the tender age of four, Carter may very well surpass me in height this year.

It is Socially Unacceptable to Paint Your Appendages, Or At Least That’s What Everyone Keeps Telling Me

So in the past I’ve dyed my hands purple twice and painted my hair bright orange. These pigmented events for whatever reason seem to upset both my parents and grandparents immensely.  Personally I feel this is a little unfair considering that Diana once covered my calves in deep blue, latex based primer and no one uttered a peep.

Blue Man Group

And yet these man get away with painting themselves nightly. (Photo credit: qnibert00)

So a month ago I was mauled by a Bear. Not an actual bear, but my parents’ cat Bear. My foot now has a series of perfectly straight, pink scars running across it. Roscoe noticed that it was taking a long time to heal and looked terrible. I told him it was because I had gout and diabetes and possibly a touch of the bird flu. He told me that I was crazy and to stop trying to do his job.


So the other night Roscoe glanced at my scars ostensibly to see how they were healing, and the following conversation occurred.


“What is wrong with your foot?” Roscoe asked, alarmed by the pink, shiny flakes slowly peeling off the top of my left foot.


“Oh. That.” I said much less perturbed than he was. “My tights had a GIANT run in them the other morning and you can use clear nail polish to stop a run but we didn’t have clear nail polish. Since I didn’t have enough time to stop at the store I used reflective pink, but then the run got bigger so it was either I go to work without tights and let everyone know that I haven’t shaved my legs in two months or look like I stepped in paint.”


Roscoe just stared at me.


“I went with the second option.”


Roscoe continued to stare. “I regretted it though, when I went to take my tights off, I swear I have Hobbit feet from the amount of foot hair that got pulled out.”


Roscoe kept on staring. He was probably doing that thing where he thinks that marriage vows don’t cover things like your wife pretending to step in paint, going to work then coming home and discussing her Hobbit feet.


“Also we’re out of nail polish remover and ripping my foot hair out was painful so I decided to just let it flake off.”


Judging by Roscoe’s continued look of shocked disdain I’ve concluded that you’re not supposed to paint your feet. What I want to know is- which body part can you paint?




Parenting The Great Unwashed

Flashback a dozen years.  I am sweet sixteen. It’s a Saturday. Normal sixteen year olds sleep in and hang out with their friends on weekends. However never having approached normal, even at sixteen, I went grocery shopping with my Mom.

Mom is in the laundry room lacing up her shoes to leave.

Mom calls- “I’m going to the store, are you ready?”

I bound into the room, raring to go.

Great Unwashed– “I’m ready!”

Mom looks my outfit up and down with concern.

The Great Unwashed – “Is it the oversized sombrero?”

Mom– “No, it’s not the oversized sombrero. It’s the sombrero and the short shorts with the mismatched pink socks in running shoes. Also the cape.”

The Great Unwashed– “The socks match! They’re both pink!”

Rainbow striped toe socks worn with thong sandals

Also an excellent combination. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Mom sighing heavily – “No, one sock has a pink band at the top and the other has a black band at the top with a picture of a cat on it.”

The Great Unwashed remains unconvinced by this argument.

Mom– “You can wear the sombrero but take off the cape.”

The Great Unwashed –“But if I take off the cape I won’t look heroic or important when I run down the pasta aisle pretending to be a crime fighter, I’ll just look silly.”

Mom – “Ok, you can leave the cape.”

My mother stands at the door mentally calculating the likelihood of me coming downstairs with matching pink socks versus me coming downstairs wearing the same socks but with blue paint in my hair, if she sends me upstairs to change.

Mom – “It’s fine. Let’s just go.”

You know those parents that lament their offspring leaving for university and complain about being empty nesters? For whatever reason my Mom never did that. Some people are just lucky, I guess.