My son, after reading my last blog post:

“You sound like a nun.”

“Well, I mean, I’m NOT. I mean, maybe in some ways, but…”

“But you sound like one.”

I concede that my last two posts were skeined with the literary theological/philosophical. But let’s not get the wrong idea. And if you have never read As a Man Thinketh by James Allen, I mean, that’s your problem.

Just what are you waiting for?

So here’s a humor post for you. My sons have been sending me a lot of “Sorry, Mom”s. You know, alarming texts after lengthy delays. I’m not clingy or overprotective, but I don’t like lengthy texting delays from my sons OR missed phone calls. I envision mangled cars overturned in deep ditches. Sudden heart failure from poison-laced Tylenol. Body parts trapped under cranes downed by heavy winds. That ilk. All moms do. Don’t make us wait too long when we call or text, please.

These have not been altered, and are in no particular order.

Boy: “Sorry, Mom, I was in court, and the judge didn’t allow cell phones.”

Me: “EXCUSE ME?”

Boy: “Sorry, Mom, there is a monkey hissing at me outside my cabana.”

Me: “Wait, what monkey?”

Boy: “Sorry, Mom, I was looking at motorcycles.”

Me: “No. Just no.”

Boy: “Sorry, Mom, I just finished giving a guy CPR.”

Me: “WHAT?”

Boy: “Sorry, Mom, I was driving. Do you believe tolls in DC are $12 twice a day, five days a week? Lucky we have EZ-Pass.”

Me: “Yeah. MINE.”

Boy: “Sorry, Mom, the cops just left.”

Me: “Does this have to do with court?”

Boy: “Sorry, Mom, just talking to the tattoo artist.”

Me: “Please don’t.”

Boy: “Sorry, Mom, the ER was packed.”

Me: “Call me NOW.”

Boy: “Sorry, Mom, I was busy in this third world country buying a ridiculously overpriced leather jacket that I will lug home and through customs then never wear again, because I live at the beach, and no one needs a ridiculously overpriced leather jacket at the beach.”

Fine, the last one was mine.