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I won’t let him eat bacon wrapped in bacon, deep fried in bacon fat, stuffed inside a Twinkie.
She’s two, Karen, not twenty-four months. When she goes to college, are you going to tell people your 216-month-old got accepted to Stanford?
Kids all look the same. They’re always dirty and usually have a finger in their nose.
Grudges and I are old friends. We have wine together every Thursday and talk about old times and all the people we hate. It’s a very therapeutic relationship.
I thought maybe that dream meant I should start obeying speed limit signs, and stop joking that those numbers are just a suggestion. It turns out, that dream means I’m being irresponsible with my choices.
He’s looking at me the way I look at tacos, and chocolate chunk ice cream, and Louboutin shoes, and everything else I love in this world.
“How was your day, dear?” I ask. “The usual. People lighting shit on fire, people getting drunk and lighting shit on fire, and Eric Fellows demanding I put in a retraction this week that he wasn’t drinking vodka when the sheriff gave him a ticket for riding one of his cows down Main Street,” she tells me. “Wait, so he wasn’t drunk when he did that?” “Oh, he was drunk. He just wants to make sure everyone knows he was drinking whiskey and not vodka, because vodka is a sissy drink, according to him,” she says with a shake of her head.
