Last night I sent a text message to the cohost of my podcast that eventually turned into a cathartic rant ending with I HATE EVERYONE AND EVERYTHING. I know that sounds pretty dismal, but a few months ago one of our listeners called my cohost “our lovable eternal pessimist” so I know he found it cathartic, too. I had the day before sent him a link to this tweet to let him know someone out here was thinking of him:
It started, though, by bragging about being the valedictorian of having water leak from the bathtub through a light fixture into the room below it. This has happened twice now, two times more than it should ever happen given that you’re dealing with flooding and water and electricity and potential electrocution from wanting your children to be clean. And I’m just going to go on record and say that hearing your child scream from another floor of the house, “IT’S RAINING FROM THE LIGHT! IT’S RAINING FROM THE LIGHT!” causes an unusual mixture of emotion. Because in the exact moment that you hear those words you’re simultaneously thinking oh god, plumbing problems and oh god, is my child high?

Come on. That is a comment rooted in weed if there ever was one.

The first time it happened we were living in our old house, and Marlo was taking a bath in my bathroom which sat directly above the kitchen. I was on the phone with my mother walking in and out of the bathroom, back and forth between my bedroom to get in some steps on my Fitbit. Back when I was obsessed with hitting my goal of 10,000 steps per day. Haha! Those days. TANGENT: A year ago September was an incredibly rough month for me and I thought that if I clocked 15,000 steps for 30 consecutive days that I’d feel better. ALL BETTER! Instead, I became obsessed and even grumpier (if that was at all possible) and annoyed the shit out of my kids by walking laps around the room as the water for their spaghetti boiled. The only pleasure I derived from that ridiculous fixation was beating my mother in total weekly steps twice. Just twice. I’ll never let her forget about those two days or the time she forgot to call me on my 24th birthday. In fact, when she does call to wish me a happy birthday I say, “Yeah, but your record isn’t really consistent, now is it?”