A day in the life of your child’s worst teacher ever.
Do you see this weird buzzing box in your hand? Yes, it’s a bottomless portal to the parsing of horrifying world news and/or pictures of everybody’s #pandemicmuffins. But it is also a Phone, and you can talk on it—with your mouth.
Dear “Shabby Chic” Cottage Held Together Mostly by Petrified Mouse Corpses: I’m writing to tell you that despite a lifetime of being told you’re the Ultimate Canadian Experience, I’ve decided that you, cottage, are crap.
While I adore my only child, there’s still a certain chill that crawls up my spine every time Ben starts calling out in a singsongy voice (you know, the kind you hear in horror movies with children who do terrible things): “Who-o-o wants to play with me?”
Come October, Jason and The Hockey Monster We Spawned will be donning their Montreal Canadiens jerseys and cuddling up on the couch in front of the TV for six months, while I grumble, ignored, in the background.