cat named pig

. . . you get free tickets to the musical Grease for a Wednesday night and you’re disappointed because you don’t want to be out late on a school night. (Even though it’s your kid’s school night, not yours. But you still have to deal with getting that kid out the door in the morning, which takes eight hours’ sleep and a pot of coffee. At the very least.)

. . . you can’t find anything clean to wear to Grease because, despite having done five loads of laundry this week, you still have not gotten all the kids’ dirty stuff washed before starting on your own.

. . . while watching the musical, you feel a twinge of sympathy for Sandy’s parents at the end when she transforms from goody-two-shoes to cigarette-smoking, skintight-legging-wearing, teased-hair tramp. (Her poor parents, you might think to yourself as she struts around the stage in her shiny spandex pants, I bet they’re so disappointed that she completely changed herself for some guy. I hope my daughter never does that.)

Apparently I no longer identify with the high schoolers and now I identify with their parents instead. From here, it’s just one long downhill slide into being a grouchy old lady yelling at those darn kids to keep off my lawn and not understanding how these newfangled telephones work.