Scene:
My daughter is at home, putting stamps on her wedding invitations (a project that has taken over the dining room table). She is gazing out the living room window as I telephone her after dropping my son at baseball. (Note to reader: Honey is my 80-year-old mother’s nickname.)

Me: “How’s it going, Linz?”

Lindsey: “Good, I’m just about done. Uh oh…oh no…oh dear!”

Me: “What? What happened?”

Lindsey: “Honey is backing out of the driveway. Oh no! Uh oh!”

Me: “And…?”

Lindsey: “Be careful, Honey! O-o-o-o-o-h n-o-o-o-o-o…” (her voice trails off)

Me: “Lindsey, what just happened?!”

Lindsey: “Honey just backed into our garbage cans.”

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