Yesterday, the family took a mini-adventure to Petsmart to get dog food. Yes, yes, I know how glamorous my life is to you mere mortals. And no, I didn’t wear my tiara or cape on this outing.

In the line paying for the ridiculously expensive designer dog food (Why is it that my dog can only tolerate designer food? Why don’t dogs ever tolerate only Alpo?), the buffed, polished, chemically preserved woman in line behind us began chatting.

I answered when she asked how old the boys were.
I cooed when she said she had a grandson the same age, and told her, honestly, she didn’t look old enough to have grandkids.
I affirmed that yes, sometimes they are a handful.
I thanked her when she gushed about how cute my boys are.
I thanked her again when she kept gushing about how cute my boys were.
I grinned when she caught huzzy’s attention and told him we make cute kids.

I snorted when she told huzzy that I’m cuter than he is.

I paid and got the hell out of there when she said that huzzy and I *look like brother and sister.

*For the record, we don’t. And we aren’t.