Henry’s in the kitchen, carving pumpkins. In passing, I asked him if acting like a produce surgeon is as easy as it looks.”
It’s not so bad,” he answered thoughtfully. “Why, haven’t you ever carved one before?”
I laughed, obnoxiously. “Uh, no. I had people to do that shit for me.”
Henry rolled his eyes and mumbled something about me being pathetic. He’s like one of those talking dolls that come programmed with five cliched sayings that wear out after the tenth string-pull.
I have to go. My child is eating a piece of cheese that appears to be wearing a toupee.