We’re in the thick of summer camp season at the moment.
In which we try to kill a few hours in a vomit-filled trampoline park. As you do.
I’m so over applying sunblock.
You, too, can look super profesh by writing on the back of various condolence cards!
But friends: My house. Oh my god, the house.
My friend has a bar in her basement.* One night, we were hanging around and talking, sipping on a few Kahlua Mudslides (as you do in a basement bar in the suburbs), and we talked about the challenges of being working mothers. And my friend said, “If I really let myself think about being away from…
Sometimes in the early evening I find myself sitting down.
This is dumb.
I need clothing.
Husbands be putting babies into too-tiny t-shirts.
There is nothing more wholesome-looking than a sweet little baby being pushed around on top of 20 bottles of wine.
So, when do we fill out the police report?