Introspectre

I know, I know... you've been clicking on the site, and there's a bunch of jibber jabber about Drupal. I'm still getting all of the six years worth of posts put back in, and I don't care to slap the blog back up all Frankenstein-esque; stitches and neck bolts just aren't my style.

In the meantime, I can offer up this little morsel, just to let you know I'm still here, however distant I may seem:

I recently bought a box of Pop Tarts. Nasty, nasty, vile little occasionally delicious Pop Tarts. Much to my son's delight, this box came with a fake tattoo. He held it up for me to admire while quietly uttering, "Awesoooooome..."

Call it what you will, but I was amused. I asked him if he'd like to put it on, to which he readily agreed. Then I told him my suggested location, to which his eyes grew wide in astonishment. When I told him how I thought he should properly display it to my husband, he cracked up. And being my spawn, of course he agreed.

Cue to ten minutes later: my husband walks into my son's bedroom and he jumps up laughing, "Oooh, oooh, I have something I want to show you!" while he's looking over my husband's shoulder at me, putting his finger to his lips as if to tell me to be quiet.

Hey, it was MY good idea. Sheesh.

My husband looked at me, questioningly, then back to my son, who turned around and said, "I have a new tattoo! TO THE MOOOOOOON!" and dropped trou.

There, on his little butt, was this picture:

I dare say, my son and I found it far more amusing that my husband did. Frankly, I'm still amused.