Tonight was a glorious night to eat outside, so we decided to drive all of 10 minutes to a place on a golf course with a gorgeous patio. Besides, it was $5 burger night. Not bad for a Labor Day picnic.
As we were driving, we noticed that one of our neighbors (the ones who went on a T.V. show to lose a bunch of weight and he actually ended up winning) had taken down a decorative sign from their yard. It was cute—one of those cheesy signs you see at flea markets that you just might or might not have sitting around in your basement.
Or stuck in your yard.
Anyway, now-skinny neighbors used to have one of those signs. But now they don’t. They just re-landscaped, and I guess their landscaping got a little too hoity-toity to warrant a “Grandma's Garden” sign.
So we were discussing such important matters as we drove to dinner. We had the time to thoroughly debate the topic because this particular restaurant was 10 minutes away—our normal time-to-dinner ratio is about three minutes—when in the course of the conversation I find out that my husband doesn’t really care for the holiday baubles that I might or might not have tucked away in my basement.
“I mean, like, those bunnies for Easter and all those turkeys for Thanksgiving. I’ve never really seen the point of it all,” he says, all man-like.
To which I reply, “It’s just because you’re a guy. You’d never decorate anything if it were up to you.”
“You’re right,” he said. “If the world were filled with guys, none of those things would even be produced.”
To which Maggie, sitting behind, chimes in, “If the world were filled with guys, no kids would be produced either.”
I swear, that child is wise beyond her years.