After my bout of domestic goddess-icity, I woke up Sunday to a scratchy throat and a bit of a cough and a headache. It's now Thursday and I feel like I have been run over by a truck and I sound like Tom Waits when I talk.
I was thinking last night about the night the night DJ died, my ex's dad, and I kind of want to tell that story because I actually think of him almost as often as I think of his son. He would've made an excellent father-in-law, though his son would have made a terrible husband. The funniest thing about DJ is this: he had the mistaken impression that "twat" means "behind". So he'd say in his coonass/N'awlins accent, "Sit your twat down, it's time for dinner." The ex, let's call him Todd for blogular purposes, was so shocked the first time DJ said it that he didn't correct him. By the time he realized DJ was using it regularly, it was too late. So Todd warned me, on our first trip to dinner with DJ and his fiancee (aka his special lady friend, but that's another story), that it was entirely possible that DJ would tell me to put my twat in the chair, and sure enough, he did, and I managed to snicker to myself instead of being shocked.