I've been running myself around like a chicken with my head cut off. I'm not sure how I got so busy ... someone filled up my dance card while I was sleeping.
Classes, exams, make-up exams, focus groups, blogs, columns, regular work, kids, husband — where did all this stuff come from and why has it attached itself to my ankles?
I'm hoping that a funny story is going to come from all this bitching, but it doesn't seem to be happening ... wait ... no, that's not funny.
Alright, already, here's my story:
As we drove home from a faculty senate party (yeah, that's how I spent my Friday night, hanging out with college faculty who serve on faculty senate — I didn't say my life was glamorous, just busy) we came upon an interection littered with broken bits of car.
Bill commented, "Looks like someone had an accident."
Margaret quickly asked, "Did someone wet their pants?"
*rim shot*
Classic 5-year-old thinking there.
And really, once you get beyond the embarassment of having soiled yourself, changing your pants is a whole lot easier than fixin' your car.
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