“Now kids, while I have you both here, we need to discuss something important. The difference between your and you’re.” I paused, waiting for my offspring to look interested.
Instead they kept digging in the sand.
We were at the beach and their main goal was to make a sandcastle—not listen to me ramble.
“Anyway,” I continued, undeterred. “It makes Mommy cringe when someone writes ‘your welcome.’ Spelled Y-O-U-R. Can someone explain what is wrong with that?” I waited. Natalie filled her bucket with sand while Tommy used a shovel.
Hello? Spreaken ze English?
“Kids,” I tried again. “Never, ever write Y-O-U-R welcome. It’s Y-O-U-APOSTROPHE-R-E. When it comes time for you to have Facebook or whatever is in at that time, do not, I repeat, do NOT do the Y-O-U-R welcome thing. You promise?”
“Can I just build this?” Tommy snapped.
“I like saying you’re welcome. It’s manners,” Natalie piped up sweetly.
I’d just have to keep drilling it in their heads. Along with a bedtime story I’d come up with a chant—a song, maybe, on the difference between your and you’re. I’d—wait. What in the world?
A van pulled up behind us. I stared as a bunch of women climbed out of it. Many were wearing large hats.
The van said this on the sides AND the back. I guess the women really wanted to get their point across.
(This picture was taken the next day. Naturally it was parked right beside our truck...)
Were the women hoping to find Christian Grey in the condos we were staying at? I hope they didn’t find him. That would be some very loud sex and I was not in the mood to listen to—
“Ha, ha, let’s go make some cocktails!” one of the women shouted.
Oh no. A rowdy bunch. Looking for Christian Grey.
I never did find out if they discovered him on the beach.
I hope not.
I feel like I might be the only women who doesn't get his allure. I'd have been gone right after I was handed a contract.
But that's just me.