Miss Understood

What is all this hubbabaloo about? I mean really. This morning I was happily munching on pears and oatmeal when I noticed Mom spill jam on her blouse. I tried to get her attention, but no amount of flailing was enough to pull her from the Post's poor review of Ron Howard's "Da Vinci Code".

Finally, I had to resort to calling out her name, as a large goop was precariously teetering off the edge of her toast. I hate to resort to such barbaric methods of communication as yelling, but alas, I just couldn't let her leave the house in such a state.

What a surprise followed! By my calling out her name, Mom morphed into a bumbling fool, calling out for Dad, jumping around the room repeatedly asking me what I had said, and what is more? She spilled coffee all over her suit pants.

What is a girl to do? I just didn't have the heart to mention the toilet paper stuck to her butt. Afterall, who knew two syllables could entice such joy a mere six hours into the day?