I just returned from the mall after school shopping with my soon-to-be sophomore and her friend. I now understand why fathers opt to go camping, roll around in elk urine, and shit in a hole rather than go to the mall three days before school starts. As if the crowds weren’t bad enough, my girl decided to wear a flannel that hung lower than her shorts, making it appear that she was walking around naked from the waist down.

She was flocked by sales people, who, I am sure, were calculating their commissions in their heads. I mean, why not? Everybody wants to help the girl who arrives pant-less. Obviously, she needs clothes.

We’re not home half an hour and the vodka I poured for myself is only half gone when she yells down from her room, “Mom, have you seen my push up bra? Maybe we need to go back to the mall.”

It’s the moments like these where I’m convinced raising a teen is bullshit, and I wonder if we’ll ever come out on the other side even speaking to one another. Pass the vodka.

There aren’t enough warnings in the world for raising teenage girls. Although my mom swears my daughter takes after me, so it’s karma.

Is it karma that I’ve got two barking dogs? It must be. Have you ever heard a shiu-tzu bark? I have. Over and over. They think they’re coyotes. I swear. And right now, they’re wrestling over some stuffed animal, which is surely about to fling open, so I can pick up little beads all over the carpet while drinking my vodka. No wait. They stopped. One of them had to drag its ass across the floor. Epic.

It’s in the little moments where I earn my parenting badges - the faded stretch marks.

Ruff, ruff!

If this is my karma for being such an asshole to my mom, maybe we can get through this too. And if she pays attention in English, instead of scouting for a prom date, she can learn to write her own book - the sequel to this: My Mom Is an Asshole, but Not My Dog.