Darren and I were driving home from picking Zach up at the YMCA Saturday night, and we had an interesting conversation. It was 11:00, and we had had a full evening. First, we went to eat (and drink beer) at a new pub, then walked over to the movie theater to see The Pursuit of Happyness (excellent movie, btw), then drove over to Market Street to have dessert at Truffles, which is a chocolate cafe. Needless to say, we were sated and drowsy by the the time we drove back to pick up our child.
I don't remember exactly how the conversation headed in this direction, but we began talking about "the starving children in Africa". Now, if you went to Catholic school, surely you remember them. They were the reason we had to finish our carton of warm milk each day, and try to choke down every last morsel that the cafeteria ladies had lovingly prepared for us that day, even though the peanut butter smelled suspicious, you could bounce the hot dogs across the table, and occasionally there were bits of wire in the lasagna. I always wondered, but was too shy to ask, why didn't we just send the food we didn't want to those poor, starving children, so they wouldn't be hungry anymore? I was a very picky eater, and didn't mind sharing what I had. It just didn't make sense to me why we would let the children in Africa continue to starve, when we had a way to do something about their plight.
Of course, I am also the child who wanted to know what "tar" was when my mother said she was going to beat the tar out of me. I asked her one time if it was like blood. I was honestly curious about that. Then, I probably got the ever-popular response of "Don't be such a smartass." Did she really want me to be a dumbass? My mouth NEVER got me in trouble. Nuh-uh. I am so glad that I found a husband who can appreciate (and outdo me) in sarcasm.
No Point Crying Over Maced Milk
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