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The happy product

May 2, 2011

True story:

I was visiting my dad and stepmother and their kids/my siblings in the soul-deprived wastes of Orange County, California, when I was about thirteen. A boring and possibly tipsy adult neighbor was interrogating me at a barbecue, wanting to know just who I was, where I’d come from, why he’d never met me before, and so on and so forth, while I withered under scrutiny, wanting nothing more than to escape. My father was standing next to me, half-involved in a parallel conversation. “So, you don’t go to school here?” the guy talking to me asked, failing to wrap his head around what wasn’t a terribly difficult concept to grasp. “You live in Colorado most of the time?” “Yes,” I deadpanned, leveling my gaze right at him. (My dad was paying close attention at this point, ready to come to my rescue if need be.) “You see, I am the product of a broken home.”

My father still loves to tell this story, which ends when he bursts out laughing and claps me on the back, and the nosy neighbor slinks away in chagrin. Let the record show that I wasn’t trying to be a smartass, though I did, and still do, get fed up with stupid grown-ups who act all scandalized by the story of my life. For more on my happy upbringing, see the Babble blog, here.

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4 Comments leave one →
  1. May 3, 2011 12:02 pm

    “Happy product” immediately reminded me of Mark Osborne’s “More”, which – if you have not seen it yet – I command you to do IMMEDIATELY. You may want to grab some tissues and Paxil first, however.

  2. May 4, 2011 9:45 pm

    Ha! Perfect response.

  3. May 5, 2011 1:36 pm

    Laughter truly is the best medicine!

  4. May 5, 2011 11:11 pm

    wise beyond your years!

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