My mother wheezed when she laughed. My sister iPodite and I took great delight in pointing that out. Actually, the sound of her laughter would produce even louder, unrestrained cackles from us. Sometimes the hilarity reached such a high that it produced a mad dash for the special room in the house with porcelain fixtures.
That was back in the day when only one special room with porcelain fixtures was considered necessary in a house. (hmmmmm--interesting choice of words.)
I say that to say this. I now wheeze when I laugh. I don't know if it's due to cleaning out the chicken coop once too often without a face mask, or mixing caustic soda and bleach for the water system, or just a natural part of, ahem, aging. I wheeze.
And my dear Principessa takes great delight in pointing it out. In fact, she enjoys producing it. Often. At least once a week she calls me and asks, "have you checked out icanhascheezburger lately?" (note: for those who may be reading this from Mars, icanhascheezburger is a mindless website full of mildly to hysterically funny, captioned pictures of various and sundry animals.)
Thereupon the usual answer is no, and we are off to the computer to view an endless number of cute kitty pictures with often humorously misspelled quotes. She says it's funnier when she views it with me.
That's because I wheeze.
I dare you not to.
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