Blogs

7 a.m. "Your breath smells like you brushed your teeth with sadness."

That is the first thing my 8-year-old Miles says to me upon waking. Alright, I get that morning breath is the stuff of death warmed over, and I'll admit that I sometimes feel like I flossed with the fear of humanity, missing a spot right around the bicuspids before rinsing with the tears of lost souls, but man, that was deep, kiddo.

His breath? Sweet as the SpongeBob bubblegum toothpaste he's just hastily brushed with. "Why can't grown-ups have fun toothpaste, too?" I often wonder until discovering the mojito-flavored stuff. But what happens if I'm pulled over by a cop and he gets a whiff of my minty fresh hint of alcohol breath? "It's breath spray, I swear, officer!" His reply would most likely be, "Nonsense! Grown-ups don't have fun-flavored toothpaste!"

10 a.m. I'm half heartedly applying the day's war paint and 15-year-old Max strolls in with "What's with all the makeup? There's so much. It looks terrible. Are you gonna be one of those old ladies who pencils her eyebrows in?" Apparently, that ship has sailed.

Excuse me?

I blame it on the bathroom lighting, but the truth is, I'm so sick of putting on makeup that I haven't done it in months. I'd probably feel more put together, more vital, more camera ready for the store surveillance cameras at Target. But it's a monotonous chore applying layer upon layer of moisturizer, primer, concealer and foundation. And really, do they make a concealer for the soul?

How's that for deep?

In life's background, I need the kind of incessant chatter that makes me feel less alone and more a very real part of the communal fabric of life.

And so...

11 a.m. The View

12 p.m. The News

1 p.m. The Chew

2 p.m. The Talk

3 p.m. The Kitchen

3:30 - 4 p.m. The Kids. That's not a show. They're home.

Showtime!

4 - 6 p.m. Vacuuming through the Stepfordian motions.

6 p.m. Did I really forget to go to the grocery store again? For the third week in a row? I've got a half dozen chicken tenders, a bag of frozen peas and carrots, a box of spaghetti, a can of cream of chicken soup and a container of stale french fried onions. What would Betty Crocker do?

The kids file into the kitchen and the mood is full-on trepidation.

Max: What's that?

Me: Chicken spaghetti!

Max: Chicken spaghetti? What is this - Honey Boo Boo?

Me: No! I got the recipe from The Food Network. Kids love it!

Me: I guess in terms of reality TV show recipes, it's like…what's that thing the Duggars make?

Kevin: Children?

Me: No, tater tot casserole.

Max: Well, this is horrible.

Miles: I'm not eating it.

Kevin: Just chew quickly and swallow it fast. You won't be hungry anymore.

8ish: Time to swap the clichéd yoga pants for PJs and a good book. I've been on page 78 for three days reading the same three paragraphs before passing out. Tonight will be the night I make it to page 100, so help me God.

- Linda Roy

Linda Roy is a humorist, writer and musician living in New Jersey with her husband and two boys. Her blog elleroy was here is a mix of humor and music she likes to refer to as "funny with a soundtrack." She's managing partner and editor-in-chief at the political satire and pop culture website Lefty Pop and was named a 2014 BlogHer Voice of the Year. Her work has appeared at The Huffington Post, Humor Outcasts, Scary Mommy, In the Powder Room, Aiming Low, Mamapedia, BonBon Break, Midlife Boulevard, Funny Not Slutty and The Weeklings. She is also a contributor to the upcoming humor anthology Clash of the Couples. When she's not writing, she's fronting the Indie/Americana band Jehova Waitresses. She's on Twitter, Facebook, Pinterest, Google+ and Bloglovin'.