Jennifer Fliss

I don’t think you meant well. You wanted to vomit your discontent to the world. Isn’t that embarrassing? Or is it like a seven-cocktails-and-two-shots kind of vomit?

Chick Flick Cherry: If it’s about romance, it’s a chick flick. About love: chick flick. Maybe it’s about chickens. Poultry love. Either way: for you, I’ll watch it. So you can pop my cherry afterwards. My nail polish is just asking for it.

You wake up to birds chirping, just kidding, you don’t, because it’s February and it’s freezing, and also you have a kid. 

You held a cap gun to my head on the bus ride home from school, threatening to shoot me, day after day. I know you couldn't have known that I had something similar happening at home.

Nothing says "I’m patriotic" quite like going to a wolf-themed indoor water park resort wearing your wolf-themed t-shirt. With your floaties on. And a beer in your hand.

Don’t flush the toilet. Don’t turn on the lights. This is a good time to either meditate or partake in that incredibly wise bit of advice to sleep when the baby sleeps.

It is the denigrating soundtrack of a breast pumping session. You, sitting at its mercy. It, just taking and taking.

It's spring! That means it's time to start thinking about summer camp for your child. Or children, if you've got beaucoup bucks to spare.

On a dark rainy night, when our toddler was asleep, he set up Star Wars: A New Hope — who knew that was what it was called? — on the laptop. I, with a skeptical brow, cozy blanket, and my phone (in case boredom struck)...