One day, I got in trouble for something. For what, I don’t remember, but that’s not relevant to the story. It’s safe to assume, though, that I was innocent of whatever I was being accused of. When my mom started getting onto me about it, I asked, “What did I do?!”
To which she replied, “You know what you did!”
“Actually I don’t, which is why I’m asking.”
Losing what shred of patience she had left, she exclaimed, “Well, you can go to your room and think about what you did!”
As I trudged into my room, I had no idea what I did. An hour later when she came to release me, I still had no clue. Thirty-five years later, I still have no clue. I am not sure she knows or knew.
On another occasion, I was trying to write a paper for school, and I was struggling with the spelling of a word. I went and asked my mom how to spell it, and she replied, “Look it up in the dictionary.”
I believe my smart aleck reply was, “How can I look it up in the dictionary, if I don’t know how to spell it? Perhaps you don’t know how to spell it either, and you’re trying to cover it up with that stupid response.”
On
second thought, I now remember why I got in trouble and was sent to my room.
