Is it ridiculous to fantasize we—Abbi, Ilana, and me—could hang out? It is nuts, given my age and station, to think the stars of Broad City would want me as a friend?
See, I’m a single parent to a three-year old, and there’s a lot riding on my TV viewing. Ilana and Abbi are Calgon: They take me away from boring battles over wearing undershirts, daily struggles over going to bed (and how many dinosaurs, cars, toy airplanes can join him there), epic disagreements over how much Jake and the Neverland Pirates one should consume in a single sitting. To hell with Raymond, I say. Everyone loves Abbi and Ilana. We all want to be their BFF—even middle-aged middle-class parents who stopped smoking pot after a reefer-induced panic attack nearly caused them to summon an ambulance one late evening in brownstone Brooklyn. Those parents want to hang with Abbi and Ilana, too. Desperately.
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