Oh, to have a house full of giggly teenage girls – all there at the same time. Seven – count ‘em, seven. Oh, the pleasant sounds of boy talk. The warm, cozy feelin’ ya get after the 100th time of hearin’, “That is sooo cute!” The smell of fingernail polish wafts through the air, addin’ to your already giddy feelin’ of euphoria. OOhhh what a feelin’.
Of course, if you’re any red-blooded, American, macho, sports watchin’, car-lovin’, tool-carryin’, Tim Taylor idolizin’ man, the above description is enough to send you a’packin’ to the toilet in a hurry, a’holdin’ your mouth shut in an effort to not spill any on the floor. But don’t worry, a little Brut aftershave, a few Tarzan thumps on the chest and the smell of dirty gym socks will help bring ya back to sanity.
Say, speakin’ of not spillin’ any on the floor, how many of you know a nearly ten-year-old who would get up in the middle of the night a’feelin’ sick, go into a parent’s bathroom, sit on the toilet with the runs and move the little rug near the toilet out of the way in case he/she barfs while on the seat and doesn’t want to get any on the rug ‘cause it is easier to clean vomit off the tile floor than it is to clean it out of a rug? (I can’t believe I said all of that in one sentence.) That one certainly has some of her Mammy in her, that’s fer sure.