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Natalia plays basketball, too, but her real sport is ice-skating. Now, I know this falls into the white-people problems category, but Natalia’s ice-skating unitard cost almost two hundred dollars. And that was half price. When Lynette told me how much it cost, I asked if she got it at the Caesar’s Palace gift shop. And that was just the unitard. I don’t even want to know how much the skates cost. I think if I find out, I’ll use them to slit my wrists.

What was most infuriating is that when I asked Lynette how much the unitard cost, I also asked her where she purchased it. She said she bought it at the skating rink. That’s like taking your car to the dealer to get your oil changed or getting hit with the fee at a strip club ATM. Stuff is always most expensive right next to where you use it. (By the way, unitard sounds like a mythical special-needs horse.)

I can look at the bright side, though. I am glad that Natalia’s into ice-skating and not ballet. When she was three, I warned Lynette that if I saw her taking Natalia to ballet lessons, I would fucking tackle her at the door. Everyone who does ballet ends up as a disaster. They’re anorexic, they have body dysmorphia and everyone who teaches ballet is a huge cunt. No one ever said, “My ballet teacher was a delight.” They’re all the chicks who wanted to be prima ballerinas, but put on a couple of extra pounds, washed out and then took that anger out on your daughter. I’m all for discipline and hard work, but ballet seems like torture.

Natalia got into skating early. I took her and So

But like all attempts at joining in an activity with my kids, some asshole adult had to ruin said activity for me. We were at your standard-issue roller rink so of course there was shitty tween music to contend with. The tunes were to be expected, and were therefore tolerated. I knew Katy Perry and Taylor Swift were going to be on the playlist. I didn’t imagine I was going to hit the roller rink and be treated to a rock block of Dave Edmunds, Joe Jackson and Elvis Costello.

What drove me nuts was not the music, but the DJ. It was a female DJ. I think that, when you graduate DJ school, there’s two lines: one for all the guys that says “Future Strip Club DJs,” and one for the gals that says “Future Roller Rink DJs.”

She did a couple things that outraged me. First, she made an a

That was just confusing, but not enraging. Then there was, “The next four songs are all request.” As if she wasn’t going to just play the same Hilary Duff song she intended to play, and pretend someone requested it. I’m pretty sure if I got up there to ask for “Burn” by Deep Purple, that request would not have been honored.

The thing that really got under my skin was when she a