Are those handcuffs, MIST-OH??

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See my “profile pic” to the left? Not of this post, but of my big, ol’, ugleh blog page (I will get a blog face lift at some point. I know I keep switching the templates. I am siphoning pennies out of Austin’s stash & almost have enough to give this blog’s face a real good kick in the hind-end). Just wanted to clear it up that that is not me in big, black shoulder pads. That is also not me in a new mink fur coat. Lastly, that is NOT me peeking out of a tire swing. I cropped this picture of me with my boys. I didn’t want my boys as part of my profile pic. I don’t want to make them look partly responsible for the nonsense I put all up in this blog. I thought I’d include the precious little stinkers in this post, though. Also, just a quick request… I’m really curious if people are stopping in for a quick cup of coffee in my breakroom. If you don’t mind, could you just write “I wuz here” in the comment section if you are reading this right now? You can remain anonymous, of course. Although it is not common for people to come into a breakroom to grab a donut with a bag over their head, it works here.

I got a total kick out of this guy’s Starbucks ski cap. I droooooooove up (with my mind on my moneh & my moneh on my miiiiind) to the Starbucks window & saw this nice young man in his ski cap. When I first saw him, all I saw was that icon known the world over for expensive coffee. It was when he was getting my change that…my life changed. I told him to “FREEZE!” and “STOP RIGHT THERE!” because I needed his picture badly. I didn’t get to go into a conversation about why he wanted handcuffs on his ski cap at work or why Starbucks felt it was okay to permanently decorate a work uniform with a symbol synonymous with crime. We were able to discuss, however, that his mother embroidered those silver shackles right onto his hat & that she had different styles up her sleeve. He works at the Starbucks at 2920 if you want to place an order.

I leave you with this…my son’s most vile & vicious name for anyone who gets in his way. Okay, that would be me. I often get in his way. And, when I do, I tell you what…he let’s me have it. He unleashes his fury & calls me…MIST-OH!!! I have discussed this with his Mother’s Day Out teachers. Apparently, they often reprimand the little male squirts in there with “uh-uh, Mister” or “no-sireee, Mister” or “you better think again, Mister”. Okay, I took the liberty of adding everything before “Mister”. Anyway, anyone (okay, still me) that ruffles my dude’s feathers gets to be called “mist-oh”. When you’ve really crossed the line (okay, when I say he can’t watch 5 Curious Georges back-to-back with a side of 4 Caillous and topped off with a white wine Dinosaur Train sauce), he belts out “MIST-OH, MIST-OH!”. He really doesn’t get ugly about it. It’s more of a under-the-breath thing and it’s cute…well, it was the first few times.

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