Motherhood is just a fricking carnival. I mean really, I could puke cotton candy at any moment. I AM on the way to the store for some Gorilla Tape. Serious. I'll even rig a spaghettios dumb waiter so he doesn't starve. I'll also hang him close enough so he can peer longingly at the Little Debbies moldering on the top of the fridge. But I do have concrete evidence that my panicked eleven year old bullshit detector is in working order, and I can play good cop bad cop all by myself. How do I know? It all started when I noticed... a strange cell phone on my coffee table Mardi Gras night, about three minutes before the end of Glee. After much heated discussion, I found out this was a cell phone from one of his friends (left innocently here, moons and moons ago...), and a second phone was produced, also stealthily procured from a more privileged friend. (EVERYONE has a cell phone but MEEEEE!) This was a pay-as-you go deal, with no more minutes left but a fresh new code which happened to coincide with our home number. ("I was gonna give it back this week!")
Now, neither of these devices had service, but they did sport some goofy new pictures and both held a good charge, by way of the charger from my old Bluetooth device, which just happened to marry with both of these accidentally by chance and not at all on purpose with malicious forethought. So tomorrow night, we walk the neighborhood with ol' Light Fingers himself, returning electronics. Then, a brief ceremony, then duct tape on the ceiling and spaghettios until further notice. I'll be in the corner, puking cotton candy.
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