Jennifer Fliss

You held a cap gun to my head on the bus ride home from school, threatening to shoot me, day after day. I know you couldn't have known that I had something similar happening at home.

It is the denigrating soundtrack of a breast pumping session. You, sitting at its mercy. It, just taking and taking.

All the feels. If you take this out of context (and it’s never really in context), it sounds vaguely pornographic. No, not vaguely. It does sound pornographic. So a kitty and bunny befriending each other should not evoke “all the feels.” Otherwise please step away. Slowly...slowly...now go.

Chick-fil-A is at it again. This time they’re out to help. Honestly. They’ve rolled out a new service, the Mom’s Valet. Moms can order their food via the drive-thru and then go inside the fast-food restaurant, where a table will be ready, complete with high chairs and booster seats, and then have their food brought to the table by an employee. The program isn’t implemented by their corporate office yet, but has been rolled out in over 100 Chick-fil-A outlets.

I am alone.

Tights with control top: We may have gone a little overboard. A few too many beers. Several too many pizza deliveries.

Invite friends over. They should be attractive, but don’t have to be.

I don’t think you meant well. You wanted to vomit your discontent to the world. Isn’t that embarrassing? Or is it like a seven-cocktails-and-two-shots kind of vomit?

A photo of your long-dead cat, Milo, in a brass Easter egg-shaped frame. Oh, sweet animal, I miss your furballs, you think when you hang it on a low branch. Milo had an uncanny ability to hork on laps when unwanted visitors overstayed their welcome.

You wake up to birds chirping, just kidding, you don’t, because it’s February and it’s freezing, and also you have a kid.