Laundry, Dishes and The Wall Street Journal

Last week, the boys had ear infections, my oldest participated in his regional chess tournament, and I was interviewed by The Wall Street Journal.

Because when the epicenter of world finance needs a unique perspective, they naturally think of a certain Chicago mom blogger who writes about her new poo-colored carpet with the passion of a thousand fiery suns.

I am not sure how it all actually transpired, but my sister and I appeared in the Health & Wellness section of the publication yesterday as well as online in a story about sibling rivalry written by Elizabeth Bernstein. They slapped a photo of my skinny sis sitting right next to me as I slouched in my chair, drank Mike’s Hard Lemonade, and exhibited the full glory of my seven chins and fat rolls.

But who cares? It’s The Wall Street Journal, baby! For the rest of my life, I can subtly weave that tidbit into every conversation I have:

Before I appeared in The Wall Street Journal, I liked ham.”

There was this one time, at band camp, where I just couldn’t remember which month I appeared in The Wall Street Journal.”

I have got to see if the Wall Street Journal wants to talk to me again before I commit Jack to your son’s birthday party.”

In case you are wondering whether I have people in my life who will mock me forever because of this, please rest assured. When photographer Ralf-Finn Hestoft showed up at my brother’s house in Deerfield for a family St. Paddy’s Day celebration, my baby brother just rolled his eyes and gave me a look that read “What now?” He then set another place at the table without question.

The kids were confused. Ralf-Finn snapped away for most of the day, and Danny wondered aloud if we were secretly Kardashians.

I then had to pretend in front of Ralf-Finn and everybody else that I had no idea where Danny could have possibly seen an episode of “Keeping Up with the Kardashians.”

Nobody bought it.

So I apologize for not providing my planned essay on why swearing in front of children doesn’t result in them becoming serial killers. Instead, I want to thank the wonderful Chicago Parent readers for coming along on my wacky little adventure. You guys make this fun and keep me from talking to myself. My husband stopped listening to me years ago.

As an aside, the family is taking bets on how long it will take The Wall Street Journal to realize that they called the wrong person.

I’ve got my money on a week.

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