A soccer friend sent me a link to a doll hobbyist's convention, of all things. One of the award-winning dolls was called, "The Great Turtle Mother Meets Yoda".
I could be the Great Turtle Mother. I haven't actually met Yoda, but I have survived three sons' sci-fi phases, including the most annoying "Star Trek Deep Space Nine" phase. This was the extreme hanta virus version of "Trouble With Tribbles". The acting was so horrible it could have been performed by owl pellets with more emotion and credibility. And the costume/mutation design was done by a brother-sister team of psychos: one did the facial tattoos on old Barbie dolls by heating pushpins with a lighter; the other melted and merged GI Joes and Happy Meal toys with a magnifying glass out on the summer Texas sidewalk.
The Great Turtle Mother Does Luke's Laundry. The Great Turtle Mother is really tired of discussing college plans with Luke Skywalker. Sure he wants to become a Jedi knight or go to Starfleet Academy, but it's difficult flipping burgers with a light saber and the Force. The Great Turtle Mother is sick of doing her Captive Galapagos Tortoise Eating Iceberg Lettuce impersonation.
The Great Turtle Mother Stepped in Something Sticky on the Kitchen Floor. When my sister got me that introductory Swiffer set of dry-sweeping and wet-mopping cloths back in January, she probably thought the packet would get me through February. The Great Turtle Mother Is Not All That Worried About Grimy Disturbances in the Force/Floor. Yoda and I discussed it, and just decided not to go barefoot in the kitchen. Before we go buy more Swiffer cloths we are going to stop off at Mos Eisley's Cantina.