when there was nothing new in there and went on a little fishing expedition.
Did he figure out how to search for recent files? Is that how he found you? I thought that asshole was computer illiterate! Has he just been malingering as a technological simpleton this whole time when in reality he’s some kind of diabolical data miner?? Is he Kevin Spacey from The Usual Suspects?? (Spoiler alert if you haven’t seen The Usual Suspects.)
Wait a minute! Oh my God, I know what happened! Ken hasn’t read you at all, Little Guy! He read my email! My EMAIL! That entry about him never going down on me was actually just cut and pasted from an email conversation with Sara, right? And Ken totally has access to my email because we’re too cheap to get our own iPads, so anytime he wants to check his email while he’s on there, he literally has to get all up in my inbox to log me out. Usually, I don’t worry about it because everything in my inbox looks like it will immediately inject you with a lethal dose of estrogen upon opening—daily affirmations from Oprah, OB/GYN and hair appointment reminders, half a dozen receipts for romance novels I purchased on Amazon—but I’m sure the subject line Meditation --> Cunnilingus piqued his interest.
It’s so simple! This explains why Ken has been giving me head every other day instead of repeatedly kneeing me in the ovaries like he would if he’d actually been reading this shit! We’re safe, Journal! We’re safe!
I’ve been sleeping with one eye open for an entire fortnight for nothing! It’s a Groundhog Day miracle!
Free oral sex? On the regular? And I’m not going to be smothered in my sleep??
It’s too good to be true! Thank you, Deepak Chopra! Namaste! Namaste!
When the SUV’s A-Rockin’
February 8
Dear Journal,
I had sex in a car last night. In a random neighborhood. At eleven p.m. It was not a first for me, but it was a new low for my Mother of the Year contention, especially considering that I sprayed breast milk all over Ken’s Oxford shirt mid coitus and used an emergency stash of baby wipes to clean myself up afterward. Goddamn it. I really wanted that trophy, too.
The evening started classily enough. Ken and I had concert tickets, so we got a babysitter and went to dinner at a cozy little Italian restaurant on the way.
(Side note: I’m never going to stop writing Super Private Journal That Ken Is Never, Never Allowed to Read, EVER. The steady flow of date nights and oral sex is definitely still in full swing. Unsolicited compliments and a tattoo of my name can’t be far behind!)
It was a general admission show, so when we got to the concert venue, I dropped Ken off at the end of the line, so he could grab us good seats while I scrounged up a secluded place to park so that I could pump my breast milk, like a lady.
(See, Journal? This is why I was a contender for Mother of the Year in the first place! Who else is conscientious enough to still be breast-feeding nine months postpartum, keeps a hospital-grade breast pump fully equipped with a car charger on hand at all times, AND has the foresight to empty her breasts before ordering a double Jameson on the rocks? At this point in the story, I’m basically June Cleaver.)
When my boobs were sufficiently deflated, I deftly snapped the flaps back up on my nursing bra, adjusted my designated I’m-going-to-a-rock-concert black tank top, ripped off the nursing cover I’d worn to keep from flashing innocent bystanders, and stashed the bottles of milk away in the little cooler I kept inside my breast-pump bag.
Hoping I had enough time to pee and grab a drink before the show started, I cheerily repeated, “No, thanks. I’m good,” as I ran-walked through a sea of scary-looking scalpers and vagabonds into the venue.
When I emerged from the least feculent restroom stall I could find, I noticed a group of teenyboppers huddled around one of the sinks, primping and preening. All three of them looked nearly identical with their matching skeletal, fifteen-year-old bodies and perfectly straight waist-length hair. I delighted in eavesdropping as I washed my hands.
Tween #1: “Did you notice that guy sitting next to us? He’s so hot!”
Tween #2: “No! What does he look like?”
Tween #1: “He’s wearing, like, a button-down thing and looks kind of stuffy, but whatever. I just like looking at him.”
My ears