You’ve Got Mail

I apologize if you received an email notification about a new blog post that turned out to be an old blog post. I realize what an emotional roller coaster ride that must have been. It’s such a high to hear “You’ve got mail,” but a major buzz kill to realize it was a repeat message. What? People haven’t used Aol since Zach Morris graduated high school? I still have an account. It could be because I am starving for adult conversation, but I love that robotic announcer fella. His enthusiasm is contagious. Who could have sent me mail? Did I inherit a million dollars from a relative? Did Ryan Gosling want my phone number? The possibilities are endless. Sure, it’s usually just JCPenny begging me to come back. I told you it was over. It’s not you. It is me.
There are apparently a lot of Deannas who loved Aol, too. So, I ended up with 95 numbers following my name.

The truth is my bum sent that bum email. I had my phone in my back pocket when I was breaking into my daughter’s bedroom. She covered it in scotch tape to lock “annoying” people out of her room. She didn’t say I was on that list, but since I was the only person home at the time, the writing is on the door wall.

I suppose this is just the beginning. First, she locks me out of her room. Next, she won’t speak to me in public and will block me on Instagram. Then, she will become an adult and regret it all.