While Dan's over in England preserving his present for his children's future, I'm sitting here thinking I should write about the fuzz in my belly button.
One seems to be a much nobler pursuit. But I'm not going to be the one who tells Dan he's wasting his time with this whole legacy thing.
As for me, I'm going to leave my kids tales of the fluff I've pulled from my navel. It's not that I don't have the urge to chronicle my kids' kidhood. I can be sentimental. It's just that I simply don't feel that my children deserve it.
They are brats.
They make me yell at them and behave in ways that force me to become inventive about being cruel.
Okay, they don't make me do these things. In fact, I must like to do these things because they come easily. That said, I still wouldn't want a recording of me yelling at my daughter to close her bedroom door because none of us downstairs want to hear her sobbing to be played during my eulogy.
Two bites. Two goddamn bites of cottage cheese and she was behaving as if I was making her eat something out of the litter box. She likes cottage cheese! She asks for cottage cheese! I give her cottage cheese! She doesn't eat the damn cottage cheese!
But Greg, she's only three.
She'll be four at the end of month.
You need to learn to be more patient.
You need to shut the hell up.
See what I'm talking about? You're a very angry person.
I'm not angry. I'm totally freakin' bonkers and it's all because of my daughters' incessant whining. That and the fact that cottage cheese is expensive. Now come closer so I can give you a big - great big hug.
I like to pull the lint out of my belly button. How it gets in there I'll never know. It's a little miracle that happens just about every single day. Just like when I don't call that list of boarding schools I carry in my wallet.