On the Other Hand, "The Apple Thieves" Would Be A Great Band Name

The thing about children is that you sit there for at least a year or two, willing the day to arrive, that day where they can clearly communicate their wishes, their thoughts, their feelings, and then that day comes. And you don't NOTICE that day, because there's no fanfare, or anything, but it happens all the same, and you will turn around at some point, and realize your baby has turned into a sentient, articulate little person, and you will be filled with a swell of pride.

Until they do something like this.



Here's something I never thought I'd need to clarify, but all the same: I am not an apple thief, nor did my daughter and I share an ill-gotten apple at the supermarket. Fortunately, I know and love my daughter's teachers, so I will, I hope, be able to clear our previously good name.

Despite the apple-related aspersions being cast about by my daughter, we still went forward with our plan to go apple picking today. It was exactly as I had hoped it would be, putting aside the car barf extravaganza of which we shall not speak, and the loss of my beloved sunglasses somewhere in the zillion acre apple orchard. Vaya con manzanas, Ray-Ban Warriors.

 

 

It was a lovely afternoon, made even lovelier by the discovery of an apple clearly grown in Chernobyl. Something you need to do upon finding an apple this size, you see, is immediately pose for a Twilight cover. Or, frankly, ANY BOOK COVER AT ALL, given the way things appear to be trending lately:

My fake book cover also serves to providing a visual conclusion to the fascinating (ha!) question of what color I should dye my hair. I will also tell your fortune now (trying to protect the newly-colored hair from the sun, you see):

And now, I'm off to make an apple crisp. With PROPERLY PURCHASED APPLES. What the hell else am I going to do with a half bushel of apples? That wasn't rhetorical, by the way. HELP MEEEEE.