Titles are for suckers

Today one of my very favorite bloggers, Frogmama from Frogs in My Formula, is venting some crap she can't post on her own blog. Isn't that always the best material?

My younger brother armpit farts entire songs—usually at restaurants.
He can also belch the National Anthem. His Facebook updates make me
cringe (e.g., “Just fingered a neighbor’s poodle), and he constantly
pretends to make passes at my husband.

Let's call him "a."

When I first came along, my husband Chuck’s best friend referred to me
as the nameless “Chuck’s girlfriend”—for almost a year. If he wanted
to hang out but Chuck was hanging out with me, he’d have a tantrum. He
told me flat out that he liked Chuck’s ex better. He owns a potato
gun.

Let's call him "b."

Knowing the subzero standards of maturity we’re dealing with here, who
do you think told my two-year-old parrot (and by parrot, I mean
toddler) to say, “My mommy’s a lush,” not once but seven times over
dinner last weekend?

If you chose a or b, you’re wrong.

It was our married, Master’s degree-holding, polite and cultured
friends, Eric and Anne. The ones who enjoy wine and tequila just as
much as the Mullets and who hope to be parents soon themselves. The
ones who recycle and shop at Whole Foods and have careers in child
development and healthcare.

Child development.

People, man. They never fucking cease to surprise me.

(For the record, Mommy is not a lush. And Eric and Anne? We can’t wait
to meet your little parrot.)