A girlfriend once described her husband as being like the family’s pet. “Oh, he’s like the dog. Just throw him in the car and he’s happy to ride along,” she quipped.
My friend actually has an excellent marriage, but like many couples, she’s oversees their social calendar and her husband merrily follows along.
As a single mom running on all cylinders, I so get the husband. The good-natured guy is diplomatically trying to offset unnecessary discussion and adding to his to-do list. His attitude, as mine, is “Let’s keep it simple, please.”
New York in bloom
When the little pink line popped up I was convinced the newly purchased EPT was damaged, and immediately checked the expiration date on the box.
I was familiar with the clinical data regarding late life pregnancies, having worked for big pharma and watching countless friends undergo fertility treatments. At 42, no way in hell, I thought.
“How old is that girl?” my ex recently demanded.
The girl in question was Natasha, Savannah’s afterschool Russian babysitter. With her stripper attire and bleach blond hair she resembles a Playboy playmate. She even has a Hef-like boyfriend, a gawky, shaggy hair 18-year-old who I assumed lived in our lobby until Savannah and I spotted them on the street kissing.
Savannah, my 6 going on 16-year-old daughter, and her “boyfriend” Lucas broke up. Actually, he dumped her for an “older woman” in the building: Tamara, a rail thin, in-you-face 7-year-old who lives on his floor and a renowned instigator. Convenience, I suppose, bought the two together. We live five flights up.
From a financial standpoint, I was bit relieved. When he came over for playdates, he’d head straight to the frig and wouldn’t stop grazing until his dad came later to fetch him. (See “Is It A Playdate or Dining Experience.”)