I was searching for inspirational dinner music when my 10 year old requested Eminem.
Where did we go wrong?
It’s my husband’s fault.
He’s too forgiving when it comes to policing the quality of ethnically fused products that we don’t know much about like Rap music, Chi-Mex food, Keanu Reeves and Jello shots made by an adult-baby on Halloween.
Not only will he take Jello shots, he’ll insist – insist – that I do one or five of them, too.
Clearly, I should judge his parental judgements. After all, we had a 10 year old Wolverine and an eight year old Deadpool to bring home.
Ergo, I need some help here.
When the same 10 year old who requested Eminem dinner music, asked that I define the word “ergo,” my reply was that it was the same as therefore.
My example went, “The idiot wouldn’t stop his daredevil stunts, ergo, he wound up in the emergency room.”
Then he asked, “Does that mean he’s dead?”
“What? No – it means,”therefore, he’s in the emergency room!”
“Yeah, but is Ergo dead?”
Literally, my jaw dropped. As in, my mouth fell open – not as in, “Literally, I don’t know how to use the word literally.”
It occurred to me that one day – one of these days – I will take this boy of mine to Glasgow, Scotland. I’ll bet you, my bottom dollar, that he – full blooded Glaswegians – and my husband – will be in full fledged conversation.
They’ll completely understand each other.
Drink each other under the table, too.
And my head will (not) literally be spinning because I’m not Linda Blair, feeling I’ve spent the night with AWADDs (Aliens With A.D.D.) talking Scotch bubbles.
Ergo, this girl is still working on her career.
For the record, I did concede and told my 10 year old that Ergo was, indeed, dead.
His answer was, “Good. He sounds a lot like Samu.”