Sassy

My grandmother used to get mad at me and call me "Sassy."  And I didn't like it.
I've decided "Sassy" suits me quite well these days.And I do like it.
Funny how that happens.
What goes around comes around, though.  I now have a thirteen year old boy living in my house.  The sassy factor has been growing and developing since around the age of nine.  I know you're going to say your kids were born this way, but mine wasn't.  I think it's his Asperger's that kept it at bay for so long.
In trying to teach this gangly pubescent boy a thing or two, I employ my best friend - Sarcasm.  Michael and I are both good friends with Sarcasm.  
A few days ago, Michael knocked over a plastic pitcher from the drying rack by the sink.  He kept walking and was ignorant of the fact that he was slowly destroying my kitchen.  This is a common occurrence in a house of boys.
I decided to capture this teachable moment in a way only I would do.  
Priss: "When I knock something over, I pick it up!"(Insert grand gesture where I pick up the pitcher in an exaggerated manner and place it on the drying rack with a huge forced grin on my face)
He does not miss a beat.  With an expression that only a teen could give, Michael immediately responds: "Glad I'm not you."
I laugh.He laughs.
I'm so glad we are able to communicate so efficiently.

Mrs. Priss

with a wee bit of sass.