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All Caitlin, all the time
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Caitlin, being 17 and more than a half, is prone to occasional (read: incessant) fits of sarcasm, cynicism and general disdain for all human beings. So today when she made a comment about some of Becca's friends who came over to swim (the ones she refers to as "vagrants"), I responded with a snort, which was meant to convey my ennui with her constant condescension. She was taken aback, because this one time her comments had not been meant in a mean vein. "Not everything that comes out of my mouth is condensation, you know." I would never assert that teenagers are all gas-turned-to-liquid.

This morning she was out of bed at an uncharacteristically early 11:30 and told me I had to come downstairs to the kitchen because she had an emergency. I was picturing roaring grease fires, digits severed by the scarily sharp Rachel Ray knives, one or more pets who would need burial, or some other catastrophe. I wasn't ready for the sight that met me. Caitlin had been up the better part of the night "trimming" her hair. She'd cut it quite short by herself and it looked fine yesterday, but she felt the need to keep "evening things just a little". I'm sure the bald spots will fill in pretty quickly. And I've confiscated her scissors, placing them under lock and key until her need to attain perfect hair symmetry has passed.

Her Fourth of July celebration included making pancakes (light and fluffy, unlike mine which are usually burnt and soggy) with blueberry sauce made from fresh blueberries (perfectly balanced sweetness). Her real contribution to the spirit of the day, however, came in her French onion soup. She seemed to think that this was just disrespectful enough and would piss me off due to my frequent snotty French-bashing comments (my father's family was from France which gives me some leeway in making cracks about always being on strike). When I reminded her that the French made great contributions to our winning the Revolutionary War, so her choice of this deal was very appropriate, she seemed a bit deflated. But the soup, which I referred to as Patriot Porridge, was still excellent.

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