I got a text from my twenty-something friend Alex: Seriously? Who posts about bratwurst on Facebook?

I like bratwurst, I replied.

As everyone knows, Facebook has the option of letting you post your status. Some people like to keep you updated on illnesses/family issues/various life dramas (some real, some – I suspect – the product of very active imaginations). Other people like to wax lyrical about eighties music or interesting anecdotes about their offspring.

Me? I like bratwurst. And was happy to be eating it that night.

I could understand this sort of excitement about a hot dog, Alex texted. I get excited about hot dogs. But bratwurst?
So sad to be so judgmental at such a tender age, I texted back.

I mean, really. Doesn’t everyone get excited about a good bratwurst? Or is that just a byproduct of my sad, (almost) middle-aged life?

I walked into the bathroom this morning, switched on the light and was attacked by a cockroach.

It ran at me.

I screamed.

Sam, who had followed me into the bathroom in order to continue lobbying for a new Lego set (because requesting toys moments after waking me up in the pre-dawn hours has always been such a successful strategy for him), screamed.

Sam and I retreated to my bed at a quick clip, with something less than our usual aplomb. One of us was definitely screaming, “a bug! a bug!,” and I’m not entirely sure it was Sam. Meanwhile, the attack cockroach hunkered down somewhere near the toilet, drawing up battle plans for its next assault.

I tried to decide if it was preferable to just never go in the bathroom again — which would mean sharing a bathroom with Sam, who tends to pee on the floor — or if we should jut sell the house. George gave me an exasperated look, calmly got up out of bed, went into the bathroom and killed the roach.
“You really need to calm down. They don’t bite,” he said.

Hmph. Neither do frogs.