My husband’s coming home from a work trip, so I’m putting dishes in the sink to make it look like I didn’t eat toast on a paper towel for five days.
Eating Triscuits always feels like I’m chewing very small wicker lawn furniture while a family of dolls in beach outfits stares at me in horror.
I want to be wealthy enough to leave notes for the house-sitter like: “If the leopard gets lost in the hedge maze, play Sade and he’ll find his way back.”
BREAKING NEWS: Area Dad Wants You To Close The Damn Screen Door; He Isn’t Running A Hotel For Bees
Eating a takeout salad alone in your car can feel depressing, but not if you fully commit to the backstory that you’re a detective on a stakeout.
People say “If you want loyalty, get a dog,” but my dog would abandon me in a dark alley for a pizza crust, so maybe loyalty has layers.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that no two people have the same interpretation of the words “We need to leave in ten minutes.”
A posh woman asked where I got my boots and I didn’t want to say TJ Maxx, so I told her I won them in a bar fight.
Having an older dog means ten seconds after you drop a piece of food, you have to drop an even bigger piece of food so they can find it.
I’m quiet and not great about confronting neighbors, so I renamed our wifi Everyone Hates Your Rooster, Greg.
I’d be fine with a ghost in the house if each time a message in blood appeared on a wall it was something helpful like YOU’RE OVERCOOKING THE SALMON.
I don’t want clothes that spark joy. I want clothes in which I can pause in a doorway, look over a shoulder, and utter something devastating before exiting.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that if two people are at Home Depot one of them is pissed about it.
Whenever I see a family and one child is trudging slightly behind everyone and crying, I want to lean in and whisper, “Someday you will write jokes.”
It’s not the holidays until I see two minivans with red noses lock antlers over a parking space at Target.