New Syndromes, Horses.

I just saw an ad on Spotify that wanted to know if I suffered from Disruptive Nasal Allergy Syndrome. I love that. So dramatic! This sneezing is SO MUCH MORE SERIOUS THAN YOU EVEN KNOW. I am headed to the DMV to get a handicap parking sticker, for I am suffering gravely from this syndrome and can’t risk coming into contact with a cat or a dust mote while walking from my car to the front entrance of Walmart.

In other news, we have successfully dissuaded Birdy from dressing up as a “Sassy Girl” for Halloween, which consists of “wearing leggings and makeup” and is actually the 6 year-old version of “Slutty Nurse/ Kittycat/ Police Officer/ Angel/ Devil,” a phenomenon you may recognize from every October house party or pub crawl in your mid-twenties. Naturally, we put the kibosh on that mess because Slutty Halloween is what you celebrate when you have a little crackerbox dorm room or studio apartment in which to spend hours curling your hair and fretting about whether or not you are showing too much cleavage and then deciding, after a wine cooler or two, that it’s Halloween goddammit and when else can you go out dressed like a tramp with some kind of cutesy tail pinned to your butt? Carpe the diem of racy costumes and youthful confidence, girl. But not while you’re under my roof.

Her next-best idea was to be a Clydesdale, and I am so 100% on board with this– and she is, too, because it involves furry ankles and a shit-ton of hair elastics. Perhaps we will rig a little wagon of Budweiser for her to pull. Perhaps we will dress Ophelia as a keg. I do not know! But we will head out as a family and beg for candy all around the neighborhood in mere weeks and I’m thinking about it reasonably in advance, so there’s that.


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