We Pierce's don't always think about what we're saying.

I spent most of the last couple of weeks in Menard, and my father, as is usual, cracked me up.

One evening, we had taken an elderly woman from the church out to eat (or, really, she took us out to eat, I guess).

Anyway, the occasion for the meal was that this older woman's two cats had recently died, and Dad had made a couple of grave markers for them (two concrete tiles with the named written on them with a sharpy). The woman was so touched that she insisted on taking us out to eat.

So, after it was over, she began to thank Dad again for the grave markers. She missed those two cats, and that had meant a lot to her. And Dad was trying to be very sympathetic:

"I know that must be horrible. I can't imagine losing Abbey (Mom and Dad's beloved cat). I think losing her would be just about as bad as losing a child."

I was, of course, sitting in the back seat, and I yelled, "Thanks Dad."

It was really the next day before he realized what he'd said. He didn't mean it. If anyone's wondering where I acquired my mouth, though, there's no need to look far.