Matthew says I can smell a toot before it happens. Except he doesn't say "toot". In fact, when I call it a "toot", he giggles. Of course, he calls it something completely different. I think you gets the drift.
When the kids are late for school, I say, "You're tardy." They think THAT'S hilarious, too. What is wrong with these kids of mine? I call things what I've always called things, and they treat me like I'm some kind of silly, senile oldster, longing for the good old days when pantaloons were sexy and townies wore spats.
I call CDs "albums" and when I say I need a new pair of thongs, they look at me like I just said I'm installing a stripper's pole in the dining room. That they think I need a PAIR of thongs probably makes their imaginations run pure, buck wild. Mental scars for days, I guess.
I say "Stay off my lawn, you hooligans!" Matthew says, "You hooligans stay off my mom!"
Is this what's called a failure to communicate?
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