"DAMMIT!" - again from the back seat.
Me: Tagg, what did you say? (thinking, hopefully, that he said jammin or, well, anything else.)
Tagg: Dammit, dammit, dammit. I can't get my shoes on.
Me and Scott: Choking down laughs, exchanging eyes and faces to figure out how to handle while driving 70 mph down the highway.
Me: Tagg, that's an adult word and it's not a nice one. Please don't say that any more. Just say "shoot" or "dang it" or something if you're that frustrated about your shoes. (I realize now that this was, perhaps, not the best response but it was all I had at the time)
Tagg:
Me: (quietly under my breath in the front seat of the car) DAMMIT!!!!
Tagg:
Me and Scott: Trying REALLY hard not to bust up in hysterical laughter. So we ignore him and try to think about starving kids in Africa and abused puppies to stifle the guffaws. During which Scott gives me the silent, mouthed "this is your fault. You are the dammit girl." Totally true. I am the Dammit Girl. Acknowledged. But then I mouth back, "Yeah, but the future f-bombs? All you." And we both know it's true.
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