Conversation from earlier this afternoon:
Dad: (yelling from upstairs) Mel? Where are you?
Me: (also yelling) Downstairs.
Dad: What are you hammering on?
Me: A cookie cutter.
Dad: ... (sounding slightly confused) Butter?
Me: No, a COOKIE CUTTER.
Dad: ... oh.
End of conversation. I guess he decided he didn't want to know why I was beating the tar out
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