My husband came in from work late this afternoon, looking wrecked. It was one of those days, apparently, when people disguised as ACTUAL CAR BUYING CUSTOMERS came to the dealership to stand by the new Camaros and tell the salesmen, who were standing there silently plotting murder, all about the Camaro they had back in '68 or '74. Or '79 or even '83. Whatever.
"Dude, what a day," he said, coming into the kitchen and plopping onto a chair, a haunted expression on his face. "Camaro, Camaro, Camaro, and no, stupid, your 2002 Silverado with enough miles to have traveled to the freaking MOON and back is not worth $15,000."
I've heard this kind of thing before and carried on with dinner. "Do not call me 'dude,'" I said absently, stirring.
"Dudette, what a day," he began again without missing a beat. "Camaro, Camaro, Camaro...."
My kids were bottle-fed and lived to tell about it - I read a blog post today called "You're not a bad mom." The author used her little corner of the internet to call a truce between the breast- and bottle-fe...
1 day ago