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Recently, I posted an old conversation between me and my husband–one that came from a January 2008 email. The following, involving me, my husband Paul, and my stepson Zach, comes from a December 2008 email.
2008 was not the Year of Clarity.
EMAIL TEXT:
Paul, Zach and I were watching TV. Something fight- or weapon-related must’ve come up.
Zach, to anyone listening: Where are our nunchuks?
Kari to Paul: Why do we even have nunchuks? What are you doing with nunchuks?
Paul: *I* don’t have nunchuks.
Kari: Well, fine. They “used” to be “yours” and now they’re “ours”. Why do “we” have nunchuks?
Paul: *I* do NOT HAVE NUNCHUKS. *I* never HAD nunchuks.
Kari: Then WHERE DID WE GET NUNCHUKS?
Paul: THEY ARE YOURS.
Kari: WHERE WOULD I GET NUNCHUKS?
Paul: Didn’t someone give them to you?
Kari pauses
Kari: Oh, yeah…Poppop gave them to us.
