“Still?! You should name it.”

— Kid, referring to the zit that is, yes, STILL on my forehead.

Every. Year. 😂

(Continuation of Ebola Mom Part 65 and part of the Ebola Mom series)

This follow-up can only be the result of a conversation with her husband.

“Oh my god– I really miss him. I really really REALLY miss him so so so much.”

— 4th Grader, after reading the title of this test-prep passage. 

Pencil down, session over. You get an A+. 

I’ve been gone in Santa Barbara for about 36 hours. 

The funny part is that he would be doing these exact same things if I were in NYC, I’d just be there in closer proximity, sitting like a lump, taking up air space. 

He misses his lump. 

“Who’s that? And who’s that? Wait– who’s that again?”

— Me, to Eric, watching the Grammys 

I’m going to take a cue from my dating days and keep my expectations for this administration, much like first-date expectations, below sea level.

With the crustaceans and plankton.

That way, while I can and always will be shocked, dismayed, and horrified, I will at least never be disappointed. And avoiding disappointment, the worst of all the feelings, is the key to surviving and keeping your eye on the prize*!

*The “prize” in dating was finding Eric. I don’t know what the prize is here. Surviving? Not turning into a pessimistic dick bag? Going high when they go low, even though they go low every. fucking. time? Hoping he’ll die of natural causes because he’s sort of old to be president? Not becoming the kind of person who hopes someone will die?

Yeah I don’t know this whole thing just fell apart.