OK, so this weekend I take one of my 14 year old daughters to Subway. I'm standing there trying to figure out what in the world I can eat. I'm still suffering a bit with my bottom fronts. I don't tell my children this, because....let's be honest....they don't care. They are not concerned with my boring life. Their lives are so full of boys, movie, clothes, school, volleyball...blah, blah, blah. They are good kids, and would probably baby me if I asked, but I try not to whine, because I figure that's a bad example, right? But I digress.
So I finally decide on a roasted chicken, on white, with mayo. And I ask for a knife and fork. My daughter gives me this look:

First, she thought we were going to eat it "to go". Yeah, right. Like I'm going to eat a sandwich in the car, while driving. Those days are O-VER. It's hard enough to eat it at a table, right?
Then, she cannot believe that I am going to cut up my sandwich. "Mom, it's soft, what's the big deal?" she says. "It hurts", I reply, "and it's just gross picking bread out of my braces". Thirty minutes later, she is tapping her fingers on the table, asking me if it's worth it.
And, I have to tell you...I'm thinking it's not. Not worth it. Nope.
Then she got her hair cut, with red highlights. And the world was a better place.
The end.
