You know, I hope, that I love you. Your weekly visits are greatly appreciated and, in all seriousness, you have made having a second child so. much. easier. You are supportive and loving and incredibly helpful. So I say this with as much love as frustration…I just have to get this one thing off my chest.
You need to shut up about the fucking deer.
When you first started mentioning the furry interlopers, like FOUR YEARS AGO!, it was a mildly entertaining subject mostly because it was new. It was, perhaps, a bit strange that these graceful creatures were abandoning their forest habitats and roaming the backyards of suburban New Jersey. There was, perchance, a pinch of drama in the fact that they were ruthlessly biting the tiny heads off your beloved roses.
But mostly, I’m just being generous. Any appeal to the subject of the deer is long gone. My ability to feign interest has completely evaporated. Hear me when I say, the potential for entertainment in this conversation is thoroughly exhausted.
The way you go on and on…you just sound like an old lady. Or, closer to the truth, a woman who should probably get a job if you have nothing better to talk about. The deer in your backyard does not a conversation make. I say this with all due respect, of course. But I have to tell you how it’s not going to be. It’s not going to be you and me going out for coffee, me talking about my human children and you talking about the deer. That’s just sad.
They’re not exotic, mysterious or even rare beasts. They’re fucking deer! They’re everywhere. Including, but not limited to, your backyard. And their 1025th appearance in said backyard certainly doesn’t warrant calling me and my kids away from our breakfasts or unwrapping Christmas gifts or a game of Scrabble or even watching TV so we can get a glimpse. I have news that may shock you. Even the kids don’t care.
I can’t say this to your face because it would hurt your feelings. So, I’m asking jillsmo to post this in her dive bar. That way I don’t have to waste valuable time and money on this topic in my next therapy session. Let’s pinky swear. I’ll move on, if you will, too.
Your loving daughter.