I love the way my husband comes in after I’ve completely come un-glued and told the kids off at the top of my lungs. He walks in like he’s the sheriff or something and he is going to come in with a big plan to make all the pilgrims happy. He seems flummoxed when his nosing in like this pisses me off even more. He’s like “Here I am to fix the mess you’ve made.” And I’m like “Oh so NOW you want in on this? Where the hell have you been the entire time I have been on my own coping with YOUR children’s problematic homework issues? Huh…where were you then???” I always come off looking like Denzel Washington while he gets to be Ethan Hawke in Training Day. It’s so unfair. Because every single day, I get to play bad cop, nagging about unfinished homework, pointing out that neatness counts, and making sure that exactly twenty minutes of reading has been completed—not fifteen minutes, not eighteen minutes—exactly twenty minutes. Meanwhile, he gets to do “important” things like checking his e-mail or studying golf stats. Yes, I know he is working, but I am working too and his nonchalant attitude about the kids’ daily goings-on forces me to be the one to ride them like the pony express. Am I the only one who cares around here? Why doesn’t he have to care? He’s the one who is good at math in the first place whereas, I, on the other hand, have no business at all explaining math to anybody—not even to a second-grader! Which, by the way, my second grader has no problem pointing out. More than once I’ve asked my neighbor if she can hear me yelling at my kids about the importance of passing the weekly spelling test. Can no one understand that passing the spelling test may someday get you into an Ivy League college??? Am I the only one who gets this? Ugh—whatever. I am going to Costco to get a hot dog and a churro. A person should only have to put up with so much.
Sam Le Roy is J’s dog. He is not a real dog. The Husband says we can’t have a real dog or anything else that poops. We have a cat and The Husband is on cat-poop detail because after the kids were born, I thought it was only fair that he had to clean someone else’s poop too. J asked for a dog and his request was duly rejected even after he promised to clean up any dog poop (yeah right). So J sort of kidnapped Sam Le Roy. Sam Le Roy actually belonged to my sister, Deeva, and his name was not really Sam Le Roy. I think it was Harold, after the semi-professional basketball player she was dating at the time who, by the way, gave her Sam Le Roy (then Harold) as a gift. That is why he wears a basketball jersey and sneakers, and if you squeeze his right paw he says “Woof Woof! (pant pant pant pant) Woof Woof!” and if you squeeze his left paw he says in a very deep voice: “Why you just sittin’ there lookin’ at me? Pet me. Squeeze me. Love me. Do somethin’ Girl!” So, one afternoon, t...
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