To the babysitter: Please stop using so many dryer sheets and/or fabric softener. You smell like a godamned vat of Bounce. When I come home from work and hug my children, I don't want to smell you.
To Chuck's mom: Thank you for buying me my very own stethoscope so I can listen to the kids' lungs when they're sick. But do we have to bust it out every time you visit? Sometimes I misplace the damn thing.
To my mother: The kids are fine. Please stop calling me a day after you've seen them and asking how they are.
To my underwear: God, you're pathetically functional lately.
To Junior: I'm running out of nice ways to ask you to please stop talking. How your tongue hasn't run away from your mouth is a mystery to me and the town of Mulletville Lite. Just zip it.
To my twitchy eye: I get it. I need to get off the computer. I get it!
To Chuck: The fact that you now go into the other room to clear your throat—like I've asked you to for years—just saved our marriage.
Screech! Wait, I actually did say that.
(He was unimpressed.)
Addendum to Chuck: The fact that you now go into the other room to clear your throat—like I've asked you to for years—means you're getting lucky tonight.
Chuck? Chuck? Honey?
Addendum to my underwear: False alarm girls, false alarm. The man is out cold.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.