I did at first. It was like being married to MacGyver. And then it was like being married to late ’90s Eddie Vedder. But now it’s kind of like being married to the guy who opened Omaha’s first health food store. Like, he won’t wear it down, and he won’t wear it in a bun, and he won’t let me braid it. So it’s this very low ponytail every day. It’s becoming A Look.

I can’t believe he won’t let you braid it. That’s very selfish of him. My girls won’t let me braid their hair anymore, either.

We are surrounded by selfish people.

(Your girls used to let me braid their hair when they were little, I loved it.)

If Lincoln would wear his hair down, it would be very early-’90s Eddie Vedder, and I might still be into it.

I wish Mitch would have grown a Covid ponytail.

At least he can go back to the barber now that he’s triple vaccinated.

He refuses to go back. He says he doesn’t want to pay for a haircut when I can give him a perfectly good one for free. I guess I’ll be cutting his hair until I die or develop a tremor.

So much to look forward to in this scenario.

INDEED.

Beth

I can’t tell Lincoln that I think I’m pregnant.

Jennifer

Why not?

Because it makes me sound crazy. I’m *being* crazy.

You’re not being crazy. It’s possible.

If it were possible, it would have happened. It didn’t happen. It isn’t happening.

You could take a test.

I’m not taking a test.

Okay. You can just wait and see.

This is what happens, right? Everything stops working. This is the progression. Virgin, mother, crone. I just skipped the middle phase.

Is it virgin/mother/crone? Or virgin/whore?

You’re thinking Madonna/whore.

I think it’s madonna/whore.

Something/mother/crone.

Snap bracelets and jelly sandals/mother/crone.

I can’t tell Lincoln that I’m a crone now.

You’re not a crone. Your period is just late.

My period is checking out. It’s moving on. My Aunt Ruby is getting too old to travel.

I don’t miss my period, but I do miss the estrogen. My skin is so dry.

God, I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t complain to you about any of this.

No, it’s okay. Who else are you going to complain to? I don’t compare your pain to mine when you’re hurting.

That’s very kind.

It’s only middling kind.

No, it’s good. It’s like—“Love means never having to say you’re sorry.”

It’s more like—friendship means never having to check your privilege.

Well, I appreciate it.

Besides, how many times have I complained to you about my kids . . .