I could write about the day last week that began with the dog dropping a dead mouse on my bare foot and ended with me dropping a butter churn on the same spot. But I won't. Suffice to say much shrieking resulted from both events, albeit for very different reasons.
I could share the anecdote about the jackass driver who tried to pass me at 85mph when the lanes converged and nearly killed the Young Prince, then got mad when I flipped him off, then acted shocked when I yelled louder after he STOPPED HIS CAR IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD to get out and yell at me. The YP was hilarious.
"I was afraid he was going to punch you."
"What do you think I would have done if he had punched me?"
"Probably rammed his car with ours."
"That's a good guess. Were you scared when I yelled back?"
"No, then I felt bad for him. I know how it feels to get yelled at like that by you."
I could speculate on the assorted oddities that gravitate to community theater, from the morbidly obese and mentally ill to the perenially tone-deaf and perpetually overenthused. Present company included in that spectrum, natch.
I could write about the YP's slacking off in class and the teacher sending his work home -- and the YP chucking it in the trash because he didn't feel like doing it and thought he wouldn't get caught. I could write about the stricken look on his face when I told him that if he didn't shape up, he'd spend six weeks in Math Camp this summer because if he won't do the work when he's supposed to, he'll do the work when he would otherwise be allowed to do something fun.
Or, I could muse on the fact that as part of our Math Is Everywhere Adventure, the YP and I made cookies last night, except I wound up adding too much flour and somehow that gave the things an oatmeal appearance and a brickbat texture. 30 seconds in the microwave cures all ills, however.
But having given you this series of vignettes, I think I'll go back to reading my book.