Actually, I should call this post “Where Animal Rights Activists Come From,” but you get the general idea. My first post is here, for those of you just joining us.
A little background to one of these recent stories: at our garage sale on Saturday, I was attempting to sell a very pricey item: a vintage, Jackie O.-style real fur and lamb’s wool leopard coat. It is an item I inherited it from a very wealthy old woman who happened to take to Si and to me (no relation). (If you want to buy a coat, let me know!)
Daughter A. was horrified when she realized my jacket was made from an animal.
A few days later, she brought me a colorful towel. She eyed it suspiciously, and then she eyed me suspiciously.
“Mom? A giraffe had to die to make this towel?”
Did I already mention that I had to explain that no goldfish were harmed in the making of goldfish crackers?
Yesterday evening, she got a little more confrontational. I was getting chicken out, and she was sitting on one of my new barstools and she gave me The Look.
Little did I realize that purchasing bar stools means that, hypothetically, all four children can glare at me at one time.
I knew I was in trouble, being that I was handling meat and all.
It was a statement, not a question.
“A.” I looked her in the eye. I am still in charge, right?
“What is that?”
I sighed. “Chicken.”
She sat there for a very, very long time. I seriously thought the conversation was over.
And then she glared at me.
“I would have saved that chicken, Mom!”
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