|This is not a dilly bar.|
Here's the back-story. My son swipes my mitts. Like 12 times now. As a teen, he rarely wears mitts because "like obviously Dad" they immediately lower one's social status; however, when rushing out the door to go snowboarding or snowmobiling he can't locate his own mitts. Why not? There are two reasons:
- Despite all parents' best efforts to supply sweeeeeeeet toques and pimpin' snowboard pants and such, it's the same reason all freezing, teeth-chattering, hopping-from-foot-to-foot teenagers cannot find adequate clothing to sustain life outdoors: they CONSTANTLY lose shit. Why? NOTHING is ever returned to its intended location where one might be able to access it without drama. The teen's typical movement pattern is willy-nilly with a side of uncoordinated (not unlike Paula Abdul). Due to this haphazard style, various things are left randomly all about in teen territory. For example, I once found a spoon on the clothes dryer, the peanut butter still clinging to it. This crap happens daily.
- There's a dilly bar where a teen's frontal lobe should be. Seriously. I've done the research. All teens are like this. And oddly, we allow them to drive. And THEY STEAL OUR MITTS.
Anyway, my son tells me he finally found my mitts. Or thinks he has. He's pretty sure he left them in a vehicle belonging to the father of a cute girl in his class, one who invited him to go snowboarding. Each and every day, I ask him to retrieve my mitts from the cute girl. He doesn't want to bother her though. I ask him if my lawyer could bother her. So begrudgingly he inquires but every day she remarks, I keep forgetting to look for them. Giggle. And every day the dilly bar in my son's brain melts a little more.
Yup. My mitts are doomed.