Blurbs from the Burbs by Chickysara

Dear Children, Has it ever occurred to you that I need not bust a vein in my forehead yelling at you to finish your homework every day? Golly, I don’t give a damn! If you don’t want to make it through elementary school, then don’t. Why should I care if you are the only 12-year old third-grader at your school? It’s no skin off my nose. Sure, the other mothers will talk, but I won’t have to hear it because I’ll be in Bora-Bora spending your college money. What’s that you say? You don’t like the lunch I packed for you at the crack of dawn this morning? Well, don’t eat it. Yeah, I am the rotten mother that won’t pack your lunch full of Funions and Oreo’s in favor of a sandwich on whole wheat and an apple. Forgive me if I don’t want your teeth rotting out of your head or don’t want you to get childhood diabetes. Pack your own damn lunch from now on. The sodas and chips are on the top shelf. Go for it. Oh, and by the way, if you forget to take your lunch to school, do NOT count on me to brin...

This morning, during one of our after-drop-off coffee runs, I confessed to Carol that I was contemplating legal separation because of the way The Husband eats corn-on-the-cob. I was ashamed to admit this because my husband is a good man—a great husband and father—BUT, the mechanical way he twirls an ear of corn while simultaneously ripping the kernels from the cob with his front teeth makes me want to scream. To my relief, Carol confessed to me that the way her husband eats cereal makes her want to call a divorce lawyer. “He clinks his spoon against the bowl—clink, clink, clink—I swear I can’t take it anymore!” After several years of marriage, I am noticing that overlooking these minor infractions has become more and more impossible. Like the balled up socks in the hamper. How exactly are they going to get properly washed rolled up in a ball like that? Am I supposed to unfurl each sock ball? I’m sorry, but unrolling dirty sock balls is so not sexy. True, in the beginning of our mar...