Dear man who was just talking to me at the coffee shop,
Wow, I love when random people come up to me and just start talking about stuff. You learn so much about people that way. Just a few sentences later, I feel like I know exactly who you are. You just told me that the panhandler sitting outside is bad for business and making people uncomfortable. You said the manager should do something about it. Well, I totally agree. They absolutely need to do something. But I’m pretty sure my idea of “do something” is a little different than your idea of “do something.”
Your idea of “do something” involves kicking him off the bench. Telling him to go ask for money somewhere else. Making him leave so people like you can be less uncomfortable.
Dear presidential candidate,
I have a daughter. I have a mother. I have a sister. I have a vote. And I am not giving it to you.
I’ve seen the things you say. The way you’ve spoken about women, minorities, people’s bodies, and people with disabilities. That’s the way bullies act. They look for the person on the playground who seems too weak to fight back. Well, guess what? We aren’t weak.
Our whole lives we’ve been oppressed in ways you’ll never understand in your rich white man’s world. You’ll never know what it feels like to realize that someone is staring at your boobs instead of your PowerPoint presentation. Or what it feels like to have a group of guys start calling out vulgarities to you on the street. Or what it feels like to tell your boss you’re pregnant and know he’s thinking, “that’s inconvenient.” Or what it feels like to make less money for doing the same job as other people. Or what it feels like to be called the weaker sex. You’ll never know what it feels like to be a woman.
So here’s the thing. Cinderella turned out to be awesome and her stepsisters grew up to be a-holes. Wanna know why? Chores. Yup, after Cinderella’s mom died and Muffy McGolddigger put the moves on her daddy, poor little Cindy was forced to do everything around the house. The dishes, the floors, the windows, etc etc etc.
And I know her stepmom was a total bitchmonkey and wasn’t trying to mold her into good human being on purpose, but that is exactly what happened. Because kids who have to do chores and help around the house develop a little sumpin’ called a work ethic. I mean just the other day I read this article and the freshman dean of Stanford was going on and on about how the one thing we can do to help our children is give them chores. I was like YES.
Inside my head there is a switch. Seriously, just take an x-ray and you’ll see it in there. And when someone won’t put their shoes on, or won’t go use the potty, or leaves a Lego on the stairs and I accidentally impale my foot on it, that switch might get flipped. And if that happens, WATCH THE F OUT. There is no going back. Anything you do will be wrong and you will piss me off and the fiery hell of my wrath will rain down upon you like red-hot embers.
It might last a few seconds, or a few minutes, or however long it takes for everyone to scurry away like cockroaches when you turn the light on. At some point later, the switch will flip back, and I’ll go back to my normal peaceful loving self, and I will feel incredibly guilty for losing it earlier.
ME: Zoey, get dressed.
ZOEY: I don’t know what to wear.
ME: You have a closet full of clothes. Just pick something.
(I come back two minutes later and she’s standing in the exact same spot.)
ME: Zoey, please get dressed. And don’t forget to put on new underwear. Continue reading
Okay, so I have an awesome husband. Like he totally kicks ass, and if I ask him to do something like pack a lunch or toss the laundry into the dryer, he’ll do it without complaint. But that’s the problem. I have to ask him. Urrrggghhh, it is SOOOOOO annoying. And half the time I end up asking him in a super passive-aggressive way with a noticeable eye roll.
Husbands are clueless (gross generalization but I guarantee most of you are nodding your heads). Not because they’re genuinely stupid or anything. They’re just wired differently. It would never occur to my husband to ask for a gift receipt, or to pick up my daughter’s skating costume, or to dress Holden in a decent shirt because it’s picture day. It’s not his fault really. I’m pretty sure it’s a physiological difference between men and women. But I end up doing like 99% of the shit around here (I’m totally exaggerating, it’s more like 95%) just because lots of stuff occurs to me that never even occurs to him.
Dear person who is selling Rodan and Fields, Arbonne, Mary Kay, Botox, fillers, or any other miracle products,
So yesterday I got an email from one of you. An unsolicited message. I didn’t reach out to you and I’ve never bought products from you before. And this is what you said:
Your eyes are looking a little tired. I have a wonderful cream I’d like to share with you that could perk them up.
So every year I arrive at school for “meet the teacher” and it’s the same thing. A ton of moms show up with their giant Container Store bags full of fancy shit to decorate their daughter’s lockers. And this year was no different. I watched multiple moms deck out their kids’ lockers with wallpaper, carpeting, mirrors, twinkle lights, fancy magnets, white boards, magnetic pencil holders, chandeliers (that actually light up!!), etc etc etc etc. I mean come onnnnn, seriously, people??!! It’s the second grade!!!
This is actually one of the tamer ones.
Dear Amy Schumer,
So last week we went on vacation. Nothing fancy. Just a place that’s driving distance so I can over-pack twice as much crap as we need into my disgusting minivan, and avoid the TSA lines because TSA lines with kids is basically like traveling to hell to get an enema with tobasco sauce.
Anyways, here’s the thing. We were on this beach and all of these svelte moms were walking around in their teeny bikinis and looking all hot-to-trot and at first I was totally embarrassed and kept my cover-up on. Then all of the sudden as I’m standing there dreading taking off my cover-up (FYI, this happened BEFORE I had a piña colada so it was not the alcohol speaking), I had this random epiphany.
Play dates are AWESOME… if (and this is a BIG if) IF the kid plays nicely with your kid without too much intervention. Because some kids are super easy and you’re able to get shit done around the house while they play, but some kids make your life a living hell until they leave and you add one more name to the list of munchkins you’re never inviting over again. So without further ado, drum roll please, badadadadadadada, may I present ten different kinds of play dates your kid might have over:
1. The kid who constantly wants another snack