My boss’s simchah — or my best friend’s?
My rubber tree is looking sad. Very sad. When was the last time we watered it? Moishy is supposed to do it every other week, but lately he’s been too wrapped up in seventh grade Friday hockey to remember.
Another wail breaks through my inspection. I give the tree a sad pat and then fly up the stairs to my very annoyed granddaughter.
Why is there nothing cuter than a toddler waking from a nap? She glares at me, chubby cheeks flushed, stocky little legs leaning against the bars of the crib.
“You,” I say, scooping Ricky up, “are a mush. A giant mushy mush.”
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