I was practicing my viola when I heard my daughter give a loud shriek. A second later, she ran into the room. "Save me, Mom!"
Two steps behind my daughter was the man I call my husband. And he had a fish head between his fingers. I kid you not! He had been making trout for dinner. Decapitating fish heads was part of the job. Apparently, he thought it would be great fun to terrorize the kids with them.
I briefly glanced up. "Please take the fish head and put it in the garbage," I said.
What did my husband do? He marched right up to me and stopped about an inch away from my face. With his other finger, he made the fish lips move. "Hi, I'm Mister Fish Head," it said. "Can I give you a kiss?"
"No, thank you," I said. "I'm not much into kissing fish heads. You can go away now."
Dejected, my husband and Mister Fish Head shuffled off.
About twenty minutes later, we sat down for dinner. My husband had also prepared some shrimp cocktail. My son, Bubba, picked one up. "Mama, I don't like shrimp butts," he said.
I looked at the kid. "That's the tail, and your not supposed to eat it. Just pull it off."
"But I still don't like it, Mama."
"Why not?" I asked.
"Because that's where shrimp poop comes out."