We got a fun, impromptu invite this a.m. to go hang out with some of our favorite people tonight, whom I lovingly refer to as“The Sister Wives.” Dave just rolls his eyes whenever I say that, but they are my Sister Wives, minus the fundamentalist Mormon benefits. Our kids have grown up together, and we’ve shared the trials and tribulations of private school insanity. It’s nothing short of a miracle that we’re not all alcoholics.

Dave’s favorite part of any holiday is my homemade potato salad, which is nothing complicated. It’s a dozen eggs, a dozen small red potatoes, a large sweet onion and four stalks of finely chopped celery, mixed with Kraft mayo. It used to be Hellman’s, my preference, but Dave insists on Kraft. Frankly, Dave prefers doing most of the work, cutting up the potatoes, celery, eggs, and onions. All I do is mix everything together. So when Dave calls it “Denise’s Homemade Potato Salad” he’s being laughably generous with the screen credits. I also get paprika duty, but Dave thinks I go a little overboard.

I forgot my A.D.D. pill this morning. Not a big deal on most days, but today I was slightly waylaid in following Dave’s instructions to turn off the buzzer on the stove when the dozen eggs were done boiling. To be fair, my aging parents live in the walk-out basement apartment of our home, and I was verifying with my mom that Jack still had zero awareness that my dad’s caregiver drowned eight gophers from my mom’s garden. Gross! Jack no longer believes in Santa or the Tooth Fairy, but he still believes his grandparents are releasing the gophers in a local forest preserve. Phew! I eventually turned off the buzzer, and then the new PEOPLE magazine cover caught my eye:

This week’s PEOPLE magazine cover. The Joan Lunden brave breast cancer battle story captivated me.

An hour later, I sauntered past the stove to pour myself more Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and discovered a water-less pan, filled with steaming hot eggs, and a brown coating on the bottom of the pan. I panicked and dumped them into the sink, rinsing them vigorously, all the while hoping against hope that Dave wouldn’t notice and there was still something salvageable. But Dave doesn’t miss a trick. Dave has the olfactory receptors of a bloodhound. Soon the phone was ringing. It was Dave, calling me from the depths of his studio. “Did you forget the eggs?!?” What could I do but ‘fess up?

The next thing I knew, urgent footsteps were racing down the stairs. Dave assessed the massacre d’oeuvres, deeming the eggs D.O.A. His last words as he headed out to the store were, “I’m setting the timer. Will you please remember to take the eggs off of the stove this time?” Only Dave can say something so seemingly insulting in a manner that comes off as patient and pleasant. Twenty minutes later, the buzzer rang and I pulled myself off of a work project to rescue the eggs. And then I got the second phone call of the morning. It was Dave. At the grocery store. Reminding me. Again. I ask you: Who needs A.D.D. pills when you’re married to Dave Dorman?

Happy Independence Day, everybody! If you have a moment, do read Dave’s blog today – it’s filled with his new news: