Progeny of mine, you know Thongs as Flip Flops, and a G-string is not something you find on the guitar. It is best not to wear flip flops to a White House function, and as to wearing a thong there, do not do so in your hair, and do not discuss the other way of wearing it over pre-dinner cocktails (which, come to think of it, you are too young to partake of anyway).
And before it be pointed out that there are far more serious issues to contemplate than invisible demarcation lines on plastic cups, allow me to observe that these lines — or lack of thereof — are a symptom of a larger issue:
Being forthright and honest. Or not.
Saturday afternoon found me trolling through the establishments of our little town, looking for loose tea, which, obviously, was not in the lumber store, the old fashioned department store (we actually have one of those), or the feed store; neither was it, however, in the grocery store.
Now as all of you with mothers know, the maternal instinct is hardwired to instill manners in our progeny — by example, by non-stop reminding, by force if necessary — and my personal preference is to set before my charges the image of a state dinner at the White House, prefacing each example with,
In the same manner, the places where I purchase dish washing liquid, toilet paper, bananas, crew socks, and grapes are also not my family. Not only are these people not there at 1 in the morning when one of the progeny is an hour over curfew, they are also not there when I need to find the paper plates and napkins aisle.