Page 6 of The Grouchy Lumberjack’s Bride

“The account isn’t mine. Technically, legally, it’s yours.”

“What? They just let anybody open an account? They don’t—I don’t know—ask for proof of identification or something?”

I’m pretty sure I’m asking all the wrong questions, but what’s new? If there’s one thing I’m shit at, it's understanding women’s motives. Sasha is only twelve, she counts as a woman.

“O. M. G. You need to join the twenty-first century. Aren’t people of your age supposed to be on Facebook or something? Or maybe you still have a MySpace account?”

“People my age?”

“You know, middle-aged?”

“I’m twenty-seven. Not forty-seven.”

She crosses her arms over her chest and slides down in the seat, propping her feet on the dashboard. “Whatever.”

“Feet on the floor, princess. If we got in a car accident like this, you’d break both your legs.”

She snorts. “Like I said. Middle-aged.”

But she puts her feet on the floor, and that’s enough for me. I’ll take the wins where I can.

“Maybe I am middle-aged, but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong. You’re too damn young to be on social media, let alone running an account like that.”

“You don’t want me to run the account anymore? Fine.” She’s all bluster and defiance now. “I’ll shut it down.”

“Yes. I do want you to shut it down. Right fucking now.”

She clucks her tongue in disapproval. “Language, please. My innocent, naïve ears.”

“Shut it down.”

“Fine.”

I glance over to see her pulling her phone out of her back pocket and clicking away on the screen. “Jesus. You have that shit on your phone?”

“Obvs. Where did you think I had it? On some ancient desktop computer somewhere?”

“When I got you that phone, I thought it was set up so I had to approve every app you downloaded.”

“Right. Like I couldn’t hack my way around that. You leave your phone all over the damn house. You only have a four-digit passcode, and it’s the same passcode for everything. If you expect me to respect your rules about technology, you need to be a little more tech-savvy. You practically begged me to hack into your phone and grant myself access to whatever apps I want.”

Shit. I am middle-aged. How the hell do parents do this shit?

They’re older than I am, right? So how the hell do they stay on top of technology that evolves faster than their kids?

Guess that’s more shit I’ll have to watch on YouTube tonight.

“Just delete the damn app from your phone. Or whatever the hell it takes to cancel the account.”

“Fine.” She practically snarls the word, then adds in a syrupy-sweet voice. “What do you want me to do with the ad revenue?”

“Say what now?”

“Well, you have over two million followers across three different platforms. When the channel started blowing up, I figured out how to monetize your popularity.”

“You monetized… What the fuck are you saying, girl?”

“I’m saying people pay to advertise on your YouTube account. And we have affiliate links to various tool companies.”