There was a heavy snow. My (now ex) husband and I got out the truck and put that baby in four-wheel drive. As we passed our neighbor’s house we noticed their three boys laying in the snow and, what looked like to us, busy making snow angels. We stopped. I rolled down the window and hollered, “Hey, boys. You sure are making some pretty snow angels there.”

You would have thought I had slapped them up side the head and insulted their mama because they sat up in the snow and gave me the most disgusted look you ever saw.

One of the boys, the second oldest and around eight, elected himself spokesperson for the three. Or maybe he was simply the first to get back his ability to speak from the shock of my comment.

He said, “We ain’t making no snow angels. Yuck.” Whazzah mattah you was implied.

I said, “Well, then, what are you doing?”

He said, “We’re playing Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.”

He said that is if what they were doing was the most obvious thing in the whole wide world and only a really stupid person could miss it.

I said, “ExCUUUSE me.” Give me three steps, mister was implied.