For those who don’t know, a few months ago, we rescued two black cats. We named one Seven — a Seinfeld tribute — and one Thirteen — a tongue-in-cheek concession to the superstition of black cats being unlucky.
And, well, because Younger wanted to name them in numbers, because, you know, math.
“Mom,” Younger said the other day as he descended the stairs. “Both the cats were lying outside my door, like sphinxes, waiting for me. So either I’m the next Pharaoh king or they smell something in my room that I don’t.”
Well, as far as I know, I’m not an Egyptian princess and he’s not the next Pharaoh King, so . . .
Maybe I am a princess . . .