Daddy, I Had a Bad Dream

It's 5am and I'm sleeping like a champion, and this little 7-year-old Boni who claims to be my daughter is standing by my bed, and I sense her whimpering so I half open my eyes, and she's like, "Daddy, I had a bad dream."

And I'm like, "I don't care. I really don't care. You're alive, right? And nothing actually happened, right? Did you piss your bed? Are you physically injured? No? Then get your ass back to bed cuz the odds of you having another bad dream at this point are low and even if you did have another bad one right now, you'd still be fine cuz dreams aren't real and, more importantly, why do you need to wake me up to tell me you had a bad dream? I don't need to know you had a bad dream and I sure as hell don't need to be woken up to be informed that you had a bad dream cuz there is absolutely nothing I can do for you right now except offer you completely disingenuous sympathy, and you know it's disingenuous so I'm not sure why you even came to me in the first place. Don't see your mother right there??"

So she goes back to bed and falls asleep in two seconds and now I'm stuck in bed, wide awake, trying desperately to fall back asleep before my alarm goes off, and I realize that she may have just had a bad dream, but I just had a nightmare about my entire fucking life.

I had a nightmare that Putin is about to invade Ukraine, and that there is nothing the world will do about it.

I had a nightmare that January in Chicago was fucking freezing. It dropped below 10 degrees for two weeks straight, it snowed non-stop, I shoveled seven times in three days, and my neighbors complained about dog-unfriendly salt on the sidewalks. 

I had a nightmare that, in the middle of this Arctic freeze, my wife abandoned her husband and children. She flew off to Florida for five days, drank beer, ate fish tacos, and sunbathed on the beach while my screaming kids and I played 37 rounds of B.S. and feasted on left-over pizza and soggy broccoli.

I had a nightmare that that same wife is trying to move her entire family to the suburbs and making me look at houses I don't care about and talking to me about updated kitchens where maybe I could gas myself and deeply upsetting her middle daughter, OG, who never wants to eat or shower or leave the house, let alone move to a new one. As you already know, OG spends 36 hours straight on the couch in a XXL light-blue unicorn onesie and, upon the mere mention of the suburbs, starts yelling at her mommy and roars her terrible roar and gnashes her terrible teeth and rolls her terrible eyes and shows her terrible claws because she will never, ever move to Where the White People Live.

I had a nightmare that I still don't know what 80% of my students look like cuz COVID will. not. go. away. Don't get me wrong; I'm not anti-mask. I'm just anti these anti-vax fuckfaces who continue giving hope to the virus and are entirely responsible for the fact that we can't get back to normal.

I had a nightmare that one child on Boni's swim team tested positive for COVID and everything was cancelled for two weeks. Doesn't matter that most kids on the team are vaxxed. Doesn't matter that they're in a pool. Doesn't matter that CDC guidelines say five-day quarantine for someone who tests positive and zero-day quarantine for close contacts. 40 kids couldn't swim for two weeks cuz one kid got sick and we officially live in an idiocracy.

I had a nightmare that I am no longer an educator. I am, instead, a validator. I validate your need for a mental health day. I validate you needing to turn in your essay late because you missed a day of school. I validate your need for a trigger warning because anything could be triggering to anyone at any time, so I will of course make sure I provide you with a trigger warning for everything all the time because I validate any and everything you need.

I had a nightmare that I was coaching the worst group of 13-year-old girls who have ever stepped foot on a basketball court. They run with the ball cuz they don't know the rules or how to dribble. Their shots go over the backboard cuz they are uncoordinated spazzes. They applaud when someone makes a lay-up. Panini is the best player on the team only cuz everyone else is absolutely wretched.

Speaking of Panini, I had a nightmare that she got her first boyfriend whose name rhymes with Silly. Well, to be precise, I had a nightmare that Panini told her mother and me that she and Silly Billy were "talking." The scariest part of the nightmare, however, is that Panini has neither spoken to nor met Stranger Danger Billy. They've texted. They've Snap'd. They've even sent voice messages. But they have literally never engaged in one of those things called a "conversation," ya know, when one person says something and then the other person says something and then the first person says something else, and so on and so forth. And certainly they've never actually sat in the same room and looked each other in the eye while engaging in aforementioned "conversation." They had plans to go to a movie so they could sit in the dark, thereby continuing their no talking and no looking at each other romance, but Butthead Billy got in trouble and got his phone taken away from him, so the movie never happened. In sum, Panini is "talking" to a boy with whom she has never spoken and whom she has never met and who is a big enough fuck-up that he got the most precious object in his life taken away from him.

I had a nightmare that that same Panini, my smart, sweet teenage girl whom I love more than life itself, is truly the dumbest person in the world. A bunch of times now, she has woken up at 1am, taken a shower, and gotten dressed, only to realize that it is, in fact, the middle of the night. She babysits for a family that lives directly on the other side of the alley, but the other day she had to walk around the block rather than go through the alley, and she called me cuz she got lost. 

I had a nightmare that clear instructions were provided to my youngest children that, regardless of when they wake up, they should stay in bed and read until 8am, at which point they should go downstairs, turn on the TV, watch an episode on Netflix, come back upstairs, and crawl into bed quietly with mommy and daddy. Despite these instructions, Broosevelt came into my room at 7am to tell me he couldn't sleep, again at 7:20 to tell me he still couldn't sleep and ask if he could rest in my bed, again at 7:40 to ask if he could start watching an episode, and then again (with his sister this time) at 8:00 to inform me that the TV wasn't working. 

I also had a nightmare that Lil' Broosevelt, whom I once loved dearly, keeps asking me questions such as, "Daddy, will you brush my teeth?," "Daddy, will you wipe me?," and "Daddy, what does cock mean?"

Update: Panini FaceTimed with Billy.

The State of Our Schools

If Jeffrey Epstein is a 10, and a faithful, devoted husband who engages in bi-weekly fantasies about his 6th grade schoolmarm is a 1, Louis CK is a 3. Did he abuse his power? Absolutely. Did he hurt people? Definitely. But he is not, as some claim, a "sexual predator." He's a chubby, unattractive 54-year-old who, 20 years ago, was such a worthless sack that all he could do was pleasure himself from across the room.

He is also a comedic genius, and I will be stealing his "Of course, but maybe..." bit for this post. If you haven't seen it, I really, strongly, adamantly encourage you to watch this clip:

Of Course, But Maybe - Louis CK

Of course Louis CK should be criticized for his behavior and receive professional and financial consequences for his actions. He took advantage of innocent women and should suffer for having done so. Of course.

But maybe......it's grossly unfair to lump him in with the Epsteins of the world and most people deserve a second chance and it's been 20 years, so let's forgive but not forget and share a fucking laugh.

Of course COVID is real and we need to mask up, social distance, and quarantine when we test positive. Omicron is contagious af, and now's not the time to let down our guards. Of course.

But maybe......it's been two years of this bullshit and pandemic fatigue is real and it's time for a little survival of the fittest.

Of course Chicago Public School teachers have every right to stay home. Of course they do. They have immunocompromised elderly parents and unvaccinated young children, and they need to protect themselves and their families by teaching remotely.

But maybe......kids desperately need to be at school and teachers are front-line workers so they (just like doctors, nurses, factory workers, grocery clerks, etc.) need to stop complaining and do their god damn civic duty.

Of course students should be able to use their phones in class. Of course. They need to be able to communicate with their parents and, in case of an emergency, must always be available. Their phones keep them safe, and they must have access to them at all times.

But maybe......kids can put down their digital vice and be present for like two seconds and if their dog dies at 10:00, their parents can call the school secretary on a landline like we did back in 1980, and the secretary can walk her tired old bones up to the third floor, and the kid can find out about the dead dog at 10:05.

Of course students should be able to go to the bathroom any time they need to. Using the lavatory is a physical issue, perhaps even a medical one, and children have no control over when nature calls. In fact, they shouldn't even need to ask permission. They should simply be able to walk out of the classroom at any time to pee, poop, or deal with any other bodily need.

But maybe......we should bring back the giant wooden bathroom pass and kids should shit in the morning before they come to school and you got five minutes to use it, hurry up.

Of course students with special circumstances should be exempted from homework. One of my students says she has a mother with a brain tumor and a brother with a neurological disorder, and that she doesn't “have the privilege of being able to do homework.” Of course this student shouldn't have to do any work outside of school hours. Of course.

But maybe......this kid, like every kid, needs to figure out how to deal with life's adversities and yes, sorry, you still have to take the pop quiz.

Of course students' mental health is the top priority. Of course. No student should be forced to complete an assignment if they're not in the right head-space, and of course students should have as much time as they need to finish their work. Sure, it was only a four-sentence paragraph and you had almost 20 minutes to work on it in class, but if you're genuinely struggling to stay focused and be productive, then of course you should receive an extension and submit your work when you're ready. Of course.

But maybe......you had 17 days of vacation to finish up that paragraph and anything you could possibly say to me right now will only make your situation worse, so just sit back down and please shut the fuck up.

Of course gender-appropriate nouns and pronouns should be used at all times. When I address a group of students, I shouldn't say, "Hey guys!" because one of those students uses he/him pronouns but one uses she/her pronouns and one uses they/them pronouns, and "guys" in this context is gender-specific and, therefore, inaccurate. So of course I should address these students with "Hey everybody" (even though there are only three of them) or "Hey y'all" (even though I'm not from Alabama) or "Hey scholars" (even though that'd be totally stupid and awkward as fuck).

But maybe......"guys" just mean "dudes" and "dudes" can be any gender and, yes, I know "guys" technically means "boys" but "them" is also technically plural, so maybe we can all just relax a tiny bit?

Of course my female students should be able to wear whatever they want. Of course. Their bodies should not be policed, least of all by an adult, heterosexual male, and they should feel absolutely comfortable wearing whatever suits them. Body-shaming is real, and girls should love their bodies, not hide them.

But maybe......just maybe......if you feel as uncomfortable as you look, you should put on a god damn sweater.

Cheaters Always Win

Allow me to introduce you to Harley*, a sour 7-year-old who goes to school with Boni, my sweet little 2nd grader who, in the eyes of her moronic teachers, can do no wrong. Harley and Boni are in the same class, sit at the same table, and, until recently, were close friends.

Turns out, however, that Harley is a mean, manipulative bitch. Yesterday, she pushed Broosevelt into a wall, and then lied and said she was “just trying to get by.” When kids don’t want to play with her, she tells them she won’t be friends with them anymore. She has a Hate List of the kids she doesn't like. Worst of all, she has made Boni an accomplice in her Post-its Crime Ring.

I’m sure you all remember the Behavior Reflection Sheet (see below) sent home with Boni a few weeks ago for taking a bunch of Post-its. Well, a few days ago, she brought home some more, and she and Broosevelt had a grand ol’ time sticking them on the ceiling of my car, trashing the living room with them, and putting “Kick me” signs on their unsuspecting mother. She said a boy named Riley had given her the Post-its and, though I was reminded of the previous Post-its incident, I said nothing.

Then, yesterday, as we were walking home from school, Boni took not one, not two, but three full pads of Post-its out of her jacket pocket.

"Where'd you get those?"

"From Riley."

"Where did he get them?"

"From Harley."

"Where'd Harley get them?"

"I'm not sure. Probably from the Post-its bin."

"So, she stole them?"

"I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?! Don't you realize you're now an accomplice to Harley's crime and that the rest of your life is fucking ruined?!"

Boni quickly realized the error of her ways and that Harley had likely stolen the Post-its. We agreed she would return the Post-its to her teacher, explain why she had them (without naming names), and apologize.

But here's the thing: Every time Boni makes a mistake, she magically and unfairly gets more respect from her teacher. Last month, when she ganked the Post-its with no help whatsoever, she won Student of the Month for "Communicator" and got a free t-shirt. Turns out all you have to do to earn praise is steal, say sorry, and have pretty blue eyes.

This afternoon, when Boni anonymously snitches on her classmates yet takes responsibility for her own wrongdoing, she'll probably be wearing cute little pig-tails and win a god damn Purple Heart.

Allegedly, Democratic voter fraud in Chicago helped get Kennedy elected in 1960, but he's a national hero. Allegedly, Republican political corruption in Florida helped get George W. Bush elected in 2000, but he’s a saint compared to Trump. Allegedly, Boni stole some Post-its, but she gets to be the line-leader and win Snitch o’ the Month.  

Cheaters always win. Unless you're Harley and you suck and get ratted on and die alone.

*Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The End of the Tunnel

If you've ever taken I-70 from Denver to Vail, you've gone through the Eisenhower Tunnel, which goes under the Continental Divide in the Rockies. Local tradition demands that you try to hold your breath for the duration of the tunnel, which is a tough ask given that it's just over 1.5 miles long and has a maximum elevation of 11,158 feet. The tunnel is an engineering marvel, but the weather patterns are fascinating as well: When you enter the tunnel, it can be dark and rainy, but when you come out on the other end, it can be bright and sunny.

I can't tell you how many times I've approached the tunnel with a feeling of hope in a soft, gentle snow, only to exit on a dangerous, precipitous decline in a violent, blinding blizzard.

Face it: There's no goddamn light at the end of the tunnel.

If Trump was the tunnel, Biden was supposed to be the light. As happy as I am about the $2 trillion Build Back Better bill, politics are as ugly as ever, Trump is still lurking, and Biden's skin looks like it's falling off his face.

Social distancing, masks, and vaccines were supposed to end the dark tunnel of COVID, but here we are (again) with cases rising, booster hesitancy, and a lock-down in Austria which has vaccinated 2/3rds of its population while the remaining third continues to wish for Germany to annex it (again).

The outrage in response to the murder of George Floyd brought hope, but the cop who shot Jacob Blake wasn't charged and Kyle Rittenhouse was found not guilty. In case you've had your head in the sand, you may not know that after Rittenhouse killed two and wounded one, he walked towards the police with his hands in the air in a gesture of surrender while someone yelled, "Hey, dude right here just shot all them down there!" The police made zero attempt to stop Rittenhouse and didn't arrest him until the next day. If an armed black dude had just killed two and wounded one, I have this sneaking suspicion that the cops may have responded just slightly differently.

A Chinese tennis player accused a former government official of sexual assault, but the Chinese government said no entiendo and pushed her back in the dark tunnel of Chinese propaganda. Concern over Afghanistan lasted about two weeks, and the Taliban is now returning the nation to its Glorious Past of Oppression. Supply chain disruptions have made me wait more than 24 hours for an Amazon delivery. 

Overwhelmed by work, the Boss has decided not only to hold her own breath, but also to suffocate everyone around her. She pays thousands of dollars to paint the house a luxurious grey, buys curtains for rooms that don't need curtains, and is getting another post-graduate degree in Expert Nagging.

Panini's puberty tunnel is more like an endless dive into the depths of the Mariana Trench: self-imposed solitary confinement in the basement, crack-like addiction to her phone, utter contempt for her siblings' innocence, shame of her mother's skinny jeans and side part, and disgust for her father “just in general.” The pressures of high school admission, social acceptance, and a flat stomach have officially made the daughter I mostly love into a monster I mostly avoid.

OG isn't far behind. She spent three hours building a ridiculously complex and impressive structure in Contraptions (buy one for your child today) and, after it fell apart, half an hour with her face down in the couch (see below). She is driving up the mountain of curiosity and self-discovery, and about to enter the long, dark tunnel of insecurity and self-loathing.

Broosevelt's front tooth has been dangling in the center of his mouth for weeks. He can't eat carrots or cucumbers, he stuffs pizza in the side of his face, and he cries every night in bed because his tooth "will never fall out!" The saddest part is that he doesn't realize that when it does finally fall out, he'll be missing both his front teeth and will actually look like aforementioned crack addict. (Apologies in advance to all crack addicts; please don't cancel me.)

Boni was born in the dark, lives in the dark, and will forever remain in the dark. Two weeks ago, she committed seven-year-old first-degree murder by secretly taking the iPad up to her room, closing the door, and watching YouTube. Last week, she got sent home with an official Behavior Reflection Sheet for "taking (read: stealing) classroom post-its for drawing/writing notes." A few days ago, she was busted for, once again, drawing on the table with a Sharpie. Yesterday, she plopped down on the couch with a big bag of chips as if "no eating on the couch" wasn't a thing. No rules, no morals, no accountability. Ya gotta love this girl.

Fittingly, I'm fuckin' great. I took the scenic route around the tunnel and am enjoying the picturesque views and wildflowers. Unemployment, it turns out, is dope: more time to read, more time to exercise, and more time to watch Narcos and not feel guilty about it. I wake up after my kids have already left for school, do the dishes from the previous evening, run a few errands or none, eat a giant sandwich of melted turkey and cheese with avocado, fall asleep for a few minutes while reading a YA book, walk through the crisp fall air to pick up my kids at school, spend the afternoon with them, eat my wife’s dinner, watch more Narcos, and ignore the dirty dishes.

Update: Broosevelt's tooth just fell out.

Squid Game

On Sunday, September 26th, my 5'7, reasonably athletic, generally intelligent, and somewhat incompetent teenage daughter, Panini, told me she had heard good things from her friends about Squid Game and asked if she could watch it.

Coincidentally, my friends had just been messaging about it, so I asked them if it was appropriate for her. My friend immediately gave my text a thumbs-down and mentioned how violent it was. So the Boss and I discussed it a bit more and decided that, no, Panini was not allowed to watch Squid Game.

Six days later, on Saturday, October 2nd, apropos of absolutely nothing, Panini says to the Boss and me, "I have a confession: I watched Squid Game."

"You did? How much?"

"All of it."

Turns out that Panini had not only watched one episode before asking us if she could watch it, but also that she then watched eight more episodes over the next four days.

My first thought was similar to that of Dave Chappelle's when he discusses Carolyn Bryant Donham, the Mississippi woman who, in 1955, claimed that Emmett Till had verbally and physically harassed her, and who, in 2007, confessed that Till had done no such thing: "Well, thank you for telling the truth...you lyin'-ass bitch."

I actually wasn't upset at Panini because despite having stolen her friend Cece's toy from her cubby when she was four, having egregiously cheated her opponent on the tennis court when she was six, and having attempted to covertly purchase $90 worth of books for her Kindle when she was 11, she usually has a conscience.

What I quickly realized is that Panini had done the wrong thing not because she is a bad kid or a liar or similar to her mother, but instead because she was set up for failure. Meaning, if a kid has a computer and that kid is allowed to watch Netflix on that computer in her room in the basement, of course she's gonna do the wrong thing.

I mean, let's be honest: If the internet had existed when I was 13, and I had had my own computer and my own room in the basement, and certain things available on the internet today were available then, I would have skipped most of my meals.

So the Boss and I discussed the issue and agreed that the first change we needed to make was making sure Panini's computer doesn't live in her room. If she wants to watch something, she can sit on the couch like a normal person and waste away her life in public.

The Boss and I only punish our kids when the natural consequences seem insufficient. In this case, Panini already felt terrible about her heinously deceitful behavior, and we felt we had set her up for success moving forward. That said, I still messaged my friends to ask for advice and make sure they were aware of Panini's vicious lies.

The same friend who said Panini shouldn't watch the show suggested we make her write an essay. As an educator, my first thought was, "Why the hell didn't I think of that?" and my next thought was, "Giddy up."

Here's the introduction...

Democracy Made My Kid Cry

Louis Agassiz was a Swiss-born American biologist who made significant contributions to the fields of zoology, geology, and natural history. He also believed in creationism and reportedly felt "revulsion" when he first encountered black Americans. Over time, his legacy has gone from one of respect for his science to contempt for his racism.

In the past 20 years, his name has been deleted from various schools and neighborhoods. Last year, my kids' school changed its name from Louis Agassiz Elementary to Harriet Tubman Elementary. It was a democratic process, one which included administrators, teachers, parents, and even students. 

Last week, Tubman held its student design competition for its 15th Annual Fun-Run. Kids draw pictures, some adults in the building choose the top five, and then the students vote for their favorite.

OG, my talented 10-year-old artist with a heart of gold, an awesome work ethic, and an actual fucking idea, draws this insanely good picture:

Yes, that's Harriet Tubman, and yes, OG did it entirely by herself, and yes, it's meant to simultaneously honor Harriet Tubman and celebrate the school's stupid-ass Fun-Run. Perfect, right?

As soon as she submits, we start getting texts and emails from folks at school and in the community saying how awesome it is, how it perfectly embodies the spirit of the school, and how they really hopes OG wins.

But then, of course, the school lets the students vote. 

Re-phrase: A bunch of grown-ups who know something about slavery and understand the historical significance of Harriet Tubman cede their decision-making power to a few hundred children who know nothing about slavery and less than nothing about Harriet Tubman.

And this is what those little fucks choose:

The smiley faces on top are a joke, the girl on top of the sign in the middle looks like a murderer, and the dog on the bottom in the middle has its face smashed in.

Tubman's mascot is a bulldog, so I understand why Ashley (the artist) drew a bunch of dogs, but her childish cartoon pales in comparison to OG's artistic class. Still, Ashley and her wretched parents appreciated something that OG and I did not: Kids don't want escaped slaves on their t-shirts; they want sweaty puppies.

Here's the worst part: Ashley and OG are both in 5th grade, Ashley and OG are in the same class, and Ashley and OG are good friends. They knew one of their two pictures was gonna win, and they told each other they would be happy for whoever won.

As soon as Ashley's name was announced to the entire school over the PA system, OG was the first to give Ashley a hug. Ashley thought OG's tears falling on her shoulder were tears of joy. OG knew in her heart they were tears of sadness.

When OG got home, she cried a lot more and told me, "I feel sad for losing, but I feel even worse for not feeling happy for Ashley."

I told her, "Listen, baby girl. Your drawing was 1,000 times better than Ashley's, and you're way smarter and prettier than she is. Also, the kids at your school are a bunch of idiots for voting for Ashley's picture. Don't be friends with any of them. And finally, what kind of school puts a decision as important as the Fun-Run t-shirt design in the hands of children? After a years-long process of changing the school name, they had the perfect design right in front of them, and yet they still asked a bunch of piss-stained eight-year-olds to vote. I'm down with the Age of Woke, but at a certain point, we need to draw the line of who should hold decision-making power (adults) and who shouldn't (kids). Tomorrow, we'll go to Tubman and burn the place down, okay sweetie pie?"

A Hateful Yom Kippur

12 months ago, we observed Yom Kippur ("Day of Atonement") in Israel. The day was quiet, the streets were empty, and we felt at peace.

Last Wednesday, we observed Yom Kippur in Chicago. The day was over-scheduled with gymnastics, dance, and soccer practices, traffic was a nightmare, and we almost killed each other at the dinner table.

The Boss decided that on Kol Nidrei ("all vows"), the start of Yom Kippur and the holiest evening in Jewish tradition, we should have "breakfast for dinner." This involves making a shitload of both scrambled and sunny-side-up eggs, cutting up a ton of vegetables, and putting Panini to work on the waffles.

Please note that by last Wednesday evening, Panini had been upset for 48 hours straight because we were making her miss school the next day. She had already missed a day for Rosh Hashanah and, after a year of lost learning in Israel, she is generally anxious about missing school and sucking at math. So the Boss figured it would be a good idea to have her slave over a bunch of all-natural, whole-wheat, "protein-packed" waffles.

Once we finally sat down at the table (close to an hour later than normal), the Boss suggested we take turns sharing what we were sorry for. Our children were starving, Broosevelt kept asking for the eggs, and no one wanted to share the syrup. But yeah, that sharing idea sounds really good. Now's a great time to be vulnerable...

The Boss said she was sorry being on her phone too much and not always being present, and then immediately got up to text her mom.

Panini said she was sorry for yelling, crying, hitting, being mean, being unreasonable, being impatient, being rude, and some other things I can't remember.

OG said she was sorry for yelling at Broosevelt.

Broosevelt said he was sorry for yelling at OG.

Boni, of course, couldn't think of anything she was sorry for. After a few awkward minutes, she finally said she was sorry for not always being honest once we lovingly reminded her that she is a pathological liar.

I said I was sorry for having such low expectations of everyone else at the table.

While all of this is happening, the waffles, syrup, and eggs situation is out of control. Extra waffles are begrudgingly being divided into halves and fourths, everyone wants to pour their own syrup, and Broosevelt still does not have the number and type of eggs he desires.

People are also becoming increasingly rude and impatient. Panini is still complaining about missing school, three to five people laugh when Boni can't think of anything she's sorry for, and sincere apologies are met with responses such as, "Yeah, you should be sorry for that."

The anger finally culminates when Broosevelt, in a tearful state of rage, yells, "Would someone please pass me the eggs?!?"

I was so upset after dinner that I told everyone they sucked and that I needed some space. I went up to my bed and went deep down the YouTube rabbit hole of despair. Outside of the bedroom, the yelling and arguing continued, as did statements such as, "I'm done with you. Go to bed right now." Eventually I dozed off for a few minutes, but was wide awake at 9pm, at which point I came downstairs, avoided talking to Panini who was cracked out on her shitty Netflix show, and went on a neighborhood walk-about so I could collect my thoughts and figure out how to get away with murdering everyone in the house (except Broosevelt).

I know you want to know how our transition back to life in Chicago has been, but I don't care what you want. All you need to know is that the kids are back at school, the Boss is back to work, and I have way too much free time. Today is the first day that I'm effectively using that free time by entertaining the masses.

So, things are fine overall, but you should know that the hate is not limited to Yom Kippur: The Boss wanted me to get new batteries for the van keys but I didn't get the new batteries, so she eventually got the new batteries herself but only put one new battery in her key, not mine. When I called her out for her passive-aggressiveness, Broosevelt offered his full support and said, "Yeah, why does mommy have such smushy boobies?