[While waiting for Spouse to bring the burgers to the table at Bottlecap Alley, watching Pro Bowl pre-game stuff on one of the monitors.]
Me: What is up with all of the "Golfknickers.com" ads today?
Little Kid (without looking up from his 3DS): That's racist.
Me: What? NO. Golf-knickers. With a K. KUH-NIC-KUH-KUH-ERS.
Big Kid: Seriously? Have you ever heard Mom use that word ANYWHERE? At home? Let alone IN PUBLIC?
Little Kid (shrugging, still glued to 3DS): I heard what I heard.
[After Spouse suggested that he could run Big Kid to the store to stock up on PowerAde and snacks for the district swim meet and purchase French fries in mass quantities from Sonic, because apparently the carb-loading has commenced.]
Big Kid: Um, Mom, can't you drive me? It's possible that I might need to talk to you about something.
Me: You can talk to Dad.
Big Kid: Yeah, but I'd rather talk to you. (Looks to Spouse.) No offense.
Me: Is this something girlfriend-related?
Big Kid: Possibly. And I just don't have a good feel for how savvy Dad was back in the day. (Another Dad-directed look.) NO OFFENSE. I mean, he got YOU, Mom, but that might have been an anomaly.
[Mom's - I mean, mum's - the word.]