Remember when the hardest decision you’d have to face all day was what flavor Kool-Aid you wanted to have? It was an important choice, fueled by the fear that if you didn’t pick the right one it wouldn’t complement the taste of your Flintstone’s vitamins. I ate those like crack when I was a kid. When my mom wasn’t looking I’d crawl onto the counter and steal an entire handful and shove them into my grubby little mouth. She caught me once, and moved them to a place where I couldn’t reach no matter how hard I tried. That was the first time I remember wishing that fire would rain down on her. How dare she do such a thing! The nerve of that woman.
Yesterday Alex and I were having a lengthy conversation about Hot Pockets. I know… wtf, right? We talk about some random shit in my house. Hot Pockets aren’t exempt. When I was a kid, I thought Hot Pockets were the best invention. I even wrote a small report on them for school about their greatness. I thought that they were packaged in something that would, quite literally, keep them hot while they were in your pocket. Great for people who wanted a snack while they were in class or people who couldn’t take a break at work. I was amazed. What a genius idea.
So, I didn’t grow up wanting to be a ballerina or a veterinarian. I grew up wanting to work for whoever made Hot Pockets. My parents wanted me to aim high. So I did.
I love the innocence of childhood. Luckily, I’m surrounded by young nieces and nephews to remind me how great life is when you’re young. Actually, I’m going to leave y’all with a joke my 4-year-old niece told me last weekend that had her rolling around in laughter.
A hippo put on a purple coat.
…….. I wish I was as funny as her.
Also, Happy (late) Mother’s Day to all the Mom’s that read here. Y’all are strong, kickass women. I raise my invisible morning mimosa to you!