While trying to evade capture, and the eventual clothing and tooth-brushing in which it would result, my son executed the perfect sweep-kick. It was really cool. I asked him where he learned to do that.
He replied “Grandma.”
My son is riding his bike. He casually leans to one side and spits. Eeeew. I don’t want to raise that guy. I tell him it’s rude. I ask him where he learned that.
I’m cleaning out the fridge (trying to get to the bottom of the what-the-fuck-died-in-here smell). My son examines the contents.
“This says ‘Coors Light’.”
“Where did you…”
WHAT THE HELL GOES ON AT GRANDMA’S?