Mostly True Memoirs
The Grown Son has been on a roll.
An obnoxious, foul-tempered, door-slamming roll.
I finally had enough.
“Don’t be such a little d**k,” I snarled.
He was shocked.
I don’t know what insulted him more.
The “little,” or the “d**k,” or the fact that these particular words came from his mother.
He reined it in.
But he was still mad.
For several days.
This morning, however, he took the garbage out without being asked, and he graced me with a smile.
This just goes to show that sometimes nothing is quite as effective as a scathing insult.