Sunday we went to "Cracker Barrel" for breakfast. Usually we go to "Perkins," but this week we threw caution to the wind, got a wild hair up our ass, grabbed our bag of metaphors and headed to the "Cracker Barrel." Life is short. Grab breakfast by the balls. That's what I say.
(Sidenote - Yes, I know that my baby is cute. Yes, I appreciate you fawning over her but you know what I would really appreciate? I'd appreciate it if you would go get the fucking high chair so I can sit this heavy-ass child down before my arm snaps off at the elbow! I'm a man... I don't have hips on which to rest this poop machine! Get me a chair you hump!)
So there we were, sittin' in the "Cracker Barrel," (you start to say things like "sittin'" and "fixin' to" whenever you are at the "Cracker Barrel") and the ladies at the table next to us were admiring Sam. Finally, one of them asks how old she is and then says to Bobbi, "I can tell you work with her."
First of all, let me make it clear that we don't "work with her." Typically, she spends her day in front of the TV with a box of sugar and a power saw. She's self-taught. Second, Bobbi made the mistake of starting her reply with... well, I don't remember what she said but it wasn't, "My husband, Booray, is the one who takes care of her." So, naturally, I jumped in and took credit for the genius that is my child who at that moment was taking the golf tees out of the little game they have on the table at "Cracker Barrel" and shoving them up her nose.
So, the lady turns to me, the care-giver and says, "Well, then I can tell you work with her."
I smiled, tried to look modest in an aw-shucks "Cracker Barrel" sort of way and said: "Most of the time I just keep her tied to a stake in the front yard."