For a variety of reasons, my husband doesn’t read my blog. Something about not enough time, having heard all this stuff ad nauseam, not wanting to give me the page views. As with more things, the details are less important than distracting.
So I go on, post what I like, knowing that he will never commence litigation against me claiming assassination of character or some other nonsense that his legal team has been trying to pin on me since I first held a musket to his head and forced him into the state of marital bliss.
But now I’m starting to suspect that he does read my blog. Because the day after I wrote about my impending canonization, I get an email from him with dates that he will be volunteering at the homeless shelter. Overnight. He does this every fall/winter season, and although yes, it’s really “nice” of him, I see it for what it is: An attempt to one-up me and leapfrog over me in the whole Doing Good department. I’m not sure how much more I can take.
And lately, there’s been a lot to take from my family.
Like the other day, I was having dinner with my 15 year old daughter. We were sitting in the area that’s right next to our kitchen, having leftovers. My son was in exile on the living room couch because he had thrown up earlier in the day. “I’m hungry!” he protested, even though he knew about my strict No Throwing Up rule. “You can have crackers,” I told him as my daughter and I slurped up oysters and tripe.
Eventually his cries of famine died down, probably due to weakness and exhaustion, and my daughter and I were able to dine in peace.
The peace lasted for a few solid seconds and then I decided to engage in pleasant conversation.
“Who’s your favorite Kardashian?” I asked. I’m not sure what I was hoping to hear.
“Who are the Kardashians?” would have been nice, but unlikely, given that my daughter, being 15 years old, is under 90.
“I don’t like any of them,” was a possibility, albeit a faint one, given that I know she sometimes watches the show.
“IDK,” was what I had the most cash staked on since that is a frequent teenage response to parental interrogation.
But I absolutely was not prepared for her response. Her instant response.
“Lord Disick,” she said, not needed even a second to consider it.
“LORD Disick?” I asked. I’m not going to pretend that I didn’t know she was referring to Scott Disick, Kourtney Kardashian’s boyfriend/baby daddy. But the Lord part was new.
“Yeah, he was knighted,” she said.
“No, he wasn’t,” I protested weakly.
“Make a bet!” My son coached his sister from the vomit couch.
“People under quarantine will not speak to the general population!” I reminded him. “How is he a LORD?” I turned to my daughter.
“He’s just awesome,” she said.
She finished her homework, but my work was just beginning. After a Google search, I confirmed that anyone (with some cash) could become a Lord or a Lady.
And I have Lord Disick to thank for it.
I hope my husband doesn’t get wind of this and try to one-up me. I can just see him going to the homeless shelter as King.