Larry loves this about me. Just ask him.
Last night, while dear husband was cooking dinner, he made the offhand comment that our boy’s hair has a bit of a wave to it. And before the words had completely left his mouth ... before he could lunge across the kitchen floor and grab my muzzle off its special hook ... I launched into the nine-hundred-thousandth retelling of how my brother’s hair went from straight to curly to downright kinky all because of one bizarre haircut he got when he was two. “And this crazy stylist gave him SIDEBURNS! Imagine sideburns on a two year old,” Larry was lip-synching right along with me.
But that won’t stop me from retelling the sideburns story. Or the “mom chucking waffles at my dad in a moment of suburban hilarity” story, or the “time my bald grandfather purchased a toupee” story, or the “my imaginary friends, Rubird and Perdinia, were mistaken for actual twin siblings, and my mother was given much credit for having three children under the age of four” story.
I can not stop. And I will not stop. I figure eventually, a fresh set of ears is bound to be eavesdropping.
Which reminds me of a story ...