Hey. We’re alive. But only barely.
Somehow Erin and I have had the same sort of week, the kind where someone in your office goes on vacation and all of the sudden you are doing two people’s full time jobs instead of just one and you’re still slightly new and everyone’s panties are in a bunch about things you only kind of understand and/or care about. The kind where you’re CC-ed in on a thousand different emails that don’t have anything to do with you or have everything to do with you and you start suffocating under the weight of just how mundane your Outlook-related stress is. The kind where by 3 pm you’re a mere a shell of a person, brain short-circuiting, patience pushed to the brink before it is maliciously punted right over the edge by some self important bitch who spreads her miserable, black unhappiness like the plague and then dares you to come back for more. The kind where you go to bed at 9 pm because you’re falling geriatrically asleep on your sofa but it’s okay because you don’t really want to be alive anymore anyway.
As you might imagine, our work-time chats have reflected this. And really, this is the truest snapshot of our lives since we last spoke.
Stress-eating: it’s real.
Just kidding. You didn’t really think that was accurate right? Look a little closer*.
There will be much drinking tonight.
*The merits of swearing from a totally respectable and reputable source
The hard economic truths of my life (No Dolla$, No Cent$) have made it necessary that I continuously live with a roommate, and I’ve gotten lucky because Megan is a special kind of roommate that cooks for me, allows me to coerce her into afternoon drinking and puts up with my…peculiarities. We’re approaching our five year anniversary, which makes Megan shit her pants, so I’m probably going to send a singing telegram or a stripper in a giant cake to her office to mark the occasion because I’m not afraid of publicly declaring how much I love paying for only half of everything.
Just another Saturday morning at our place.
These are your options: live with your parents, your significant other, a roommate or no one at all. The last option is frightening indeed, because it means those peculiarities I mentioned above have nothing and no one to keep them in check. Without a human reminder of how weird you actually are, these tics annex the rest of your life. I know this, because Megan has been out of town for five days. Continue reading
Friends, do you yearn for him to “put a ring on it”? Do you mourn your unwed status, your marginalized place in society? Do you desire the simpler times before 1970, when purpose and meaning were assigned to you by the number of meals you could prepare while expelling babies from your baggy old uterus onto the kitchen floor? Of course you don’t, because you’re a living human being with brain activity. But in the event that you are a misogynist or a woman desperately seeking to to be scolded about all the things she’s done wrong with her life, then let me introduce you to your new God:
Look upon me and despair.
Behold Suzanne Venker – author, speaker, wife, mother – who’s bravely fighting to put your vaginas and self-worth back where they belong – in the clumsy hands of one man for the rest of your life like it’s 1892. Here, suck on these delightful tidbits of Venker gospel, won’t you? Continue reading