A million years ago, my D.C. brother and I were busily paving the way for my ungrateful brother with the world’s happiest baby. One night my D.C. brother was getting ready to leave the house and go out with his friends. My mother confronted him and listed off all the things he had done recently. He cleverly gave her the blank, confused look that gets men out of so many household duties. She tried stating her case in words that a 15-year-old would understand. “I think you’ve had enough fun lately. You should stay home this evening.” With the clever wit and snarky mouth that I still adore he zinged her with “You mean there’s a quota on fun?” Unable to compose herself from that brain twister, she let him go out with his friends. I have had my quota of fun today. I want to lie in bed and drool while mindless sitcoms that require no thought wash away the exhaustion.

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