he's a dad toast

That's what A said today about his large piece of garlic toast. Don't mess with dad toast, let me tell you.

Two days ago he was sitting on the sofa, then unceremoniously chucked his kitty cat stuffed animal on the floor. I asked him, "Why did you do that to your poor kitty?" and he answered, "I'm a artist."

Hmm. It's in the blood, apparently. A few years ago my husband was still a college student at Pratt Institute in Brooklyn. He and a friend, an imposing fellow who always wore a leather jacket, walked through a subway tunnel to the station on the other side. They emerged from the tunnel, filthy and sweating, and a plainclothes policeman came up to them.

"Hey. What'chou been doing there?" The cop said. D's friend, with complete seriousness, said, "We're artists. We just wanted to see what was back there." The cop said, "Oh," and walked away.

As a side note, I didn't find out about this until way after the fact, as we weren't married yet. I couldn't believe how stupid those two guys were, walking through a dangerous, disgusting, rat-infested tunnel just to "see what was there." Everybody knows what's in there! Dirt, rats, and occasionally an electric bloody subway train going at high speeds! Durh. Another amazing proof that evolution doesn't work on the male of the species.