You’re the woman of the house. The queen of all things domestic. I know I don’t tell you this enough, but your job as wifey is the most important one of all. Much more important than your actual job as named partner at your firm.
About Jeremy Hooper
A longtime political activist, Jeremy played a role in the major LGBTQ fights of the 21st century’s first two decades. Parenthood shifting his focus, as parenthood is wont to do, Jeremy now focuses his writing on making people smile, with a particular emphasis on children’s literature.
Entries by Jeremy Hooper
SNAP: All was going well. Kellogg’s was happy. CRACKLE: But Slurp was really hitting the milk hard. It started with Skim, but he was on Whole benders soon enough.
I might’ve grown into a Spencer’s Gifts tween, pretending to look at Simpsons posters while covertly peeping fuzzy handcuffs and naughty dice. I could’ve become a Gadzooks teen, shoplifting ironic ringer tees I only sorta understood. I could’ve aged into an HomeGoods adult, embracing the simple thrills of decorative farfalle housed in seafoam green canisters. Instead, I’m cursed to live in a label-scarred building that’s only seasonally used as a Spirit Halloween.
The show’s animated mascot is a braying donkey. I am a praying member of the donkey party. I trust you all recognize this obvious attempt to make me look like a dopey cartoon.
It’s simple: Eight glasses, morning to night. If you’re like me, afternoons are mostly spent setting increasingly appreciable rage fires in increasingly busy Paneras, making that daypart less ideal. But whatever your hydration schedule, I find it best to begin when you first wake, right before the dark thoughts have settled in.
“What does she mean ‘don’t be late?’” grumbled Ramona. Just because her older sister is in her fifties, Beezus thinks she’s so special. She’s always bragging about all the hormone replacement she gets to do, as if it’s some big deal or something. “I get hot flashes too,” Ramona groused.
And here we are. I don’t like to use the word hero (though I’m sure I will, many times, when I write my memoirs). I’m just a simple rat who knows right for wrong when I see it. And then, someday, after years of consideration, I finally choose to listen to the searing fires of my burning conscience. It’s what any good, patriotic rat would do.
“My child arrived just the other day/He came to the world in the usual way” ~ Actually, my birth story’s quite harrowing. Dad, like most mid-twentieth century men, wasn’t even in the room. Mom was in labor for fifteen brutal hours. Far from “usual,” I’d say.