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Being 39

 On Thursdays, I can drop the kids with the nanny and take myself to a movie.

The last two Thursdays, the movies have been so bad, I've eagerly awaited the inevitable phone call that has disrupted the story.

"Escape Room II" didn't even attempt to include characters--the experience was like watching someone else play "Tetris" for two hours--so I was delighted when the officious washer/dryer repairman called.

"You say it's the spin cycle at fault and it's really the heater? That's like saying Repair the wheels of my car when it's really the radio that is busted......"

Last week, I chose "Black Widow." I had hoped to gouge out my eyes before viewing another Marvel film, but it's slim pickings here in Jersey. I briefly nodded off after four minutes, thus missing crucial exposition about alien Soviet drone/starlets, and then I was lost for the next two hours.

This time, my call came from my husband, so I assumed my baby was dead. "Are you in the car?" said Marc. "What time did your movie start?" The baby was fine. Neither Marc nor I was really sure why this call was happening, but it made a pleasant change after two hours of B-minus Scar-Jo.

Today, I'll see "Old," but I also anticipate stepping out to field a nanny question about diaper rash. 

I'm told that this phase of my life will--eventually--end.


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