I have recently been made aware of a concept in the America called “Smother’s Day.” A television ad told me about it, and then another and another. If I am to correctly understand, a Smother is something like a Smore, but not an actual brand of jelly. That’s Smuckers, and they are happy people live to be one hundred despite eating high fructose corn syrup solids. So in the midst of all that jubilation about the dinosaur birthdays, a ybab decided to start pointing at things. “Dat?” Well, honey, that’s Matt Lauer. “Dat?” Oh, put me on the jeezly spot, why don’t you? Some things just can’t be explained. Maybe when you’re two.
And back to this Smother’s Day deal: I hear it’s a magical day, where the cat box cleans itself, and ybab will wipe her own butt for 24 entire hours. I hear that I might get a gold pendant of some sort, possibly with the “#1” designation. And I won’t even have to put out to get this jewelry. Who wants to put out when you have a ybab already? Fool me twice, I don’t think so!
Do I smell natural gas? That would just figure if my house blew up. Last year on Smother’s Day, it flooded. Haha! As you might imagine, I am jittery about this one. Pee to the Tee to the Ess to the D. I am celebrating by not purchasing gifts for any relatives who have been blighted by offspring. Mr. H is of course free to purchase gifts in my stead, but he won’t, because he’s Mr. H. Is he even reading this? I have set a bear trap just now. Who else has found my blog? You? Great. Leave a comment plz.
OK, so if not a pendant, I hope to get a mug. Or a beer hat, but insulated for coffee. It should attest to my prowess at keeping ybab alive. She takes a lickin’ and keeps on tickin’, luckily. This morning I removed her from eating cat kibble, and she rewarded me with a boilermaker to the head. Is that a type of punch? A hay bailer maybe? If those aren’t types of punches, they should be. She fights dirty.