5 Things To Do That Aren’t Calling Your Ex

It’s an urge that happens to the best of us. It doesn’t matter how hot your revenge body is or how happy you are with your Tinder settle-swipe – everyone is susceptible to that sudden pang of nostalgia, the glossy, earnest yearning for a time gone by, the sweet idiocy of forgetting all of the bad and remembering only the good. Maybe you just heard a snippet of Jack & Diane on the radio; maybe your self-loathing is just particularly active in the fall. Whatever the reason, I’m here to tell you one thing:

Don’t do it.

Since you’re reading this blog, I’m assuming that you’re an Intellectual and I don’t need to tell you why you shouldn’t call your ex. Instead, I’m going to give you some other things to do until the self-destructive urge passes.

1. Hang out with your kids

There’s nothing to get your mind off of your steamy, spontaneous past love affairs than spending time with your children! It’s essentially impossible to maintain any semblance of romantic notion with sticky fingers yanking on the hem of your shirt, especially when you legally cannot ignore them. That’s right, you hot-blooded woman – you may have been an insatiable panther back in days of yore, but now you are Mom*.

Mom: The equivalent of an eighteen-year-long cold shower.

miranda-kerr-sexy-pics-073*This is a joke. Please do not furiously comment that you are a mom and still hot & horny – I believe you, okay? I am also a hot & horny mom. Every mom is horny and most are hot. Look, I put in a picture of a hot mom just to assuage your frazzled nerves.

2. Volunteer at an animal shelter

Don’t have kids? Wow, rub it in. Don’t despair! You can spend your days with other babies – other soft, sweet babies who are guaranteed to love you and take your mind off its own temporary insanity. Your local animal shelter is likely always accepting volunteers to socialize the cats and dogs, meaning your afternoon is booked. If you’re lucky, they also have a designated ‘kitten room’ where you can just lie on the floor and be adorably mauled by small, fuzzy bundles of mewling and claws.

tenorI can’t not post this gif.

3. Clean your bathroom

Yeah, you’re right, this one sucks. I’d honestly rather call my ex and deal with the inevitable humiliating regret/emotional fallout than scrub the weird porcelain foot of my toilet. But you are likely made of stronger stuff than I, in which case break out your rubber gloves and get going, sister.

4. Read Harry Potter fanfiction

This one is my favorite because it is genuinely a good time. Doesn’t it sound fun?! Seven books and the entirety of Pottermore just isn’t enough, I know, but the good news is there are tons of people who feel the exact same way and they have unofficially expanded the universe for you!

… No? This doesn’t sound like fun? It’s just me? Fine, whatever, go call your ex. But don’t come crying to me when you find out he’s actually married to an L.A. 8 and didn’t recognize your voice when you greeted him, ‘hey, it’s me!’

(Just kidding, you can always come crying to me about anything. Especially Harry Potter fanfiction.)

5. Take a bath

A good one, too. Not like a regular fill-up-the-tub-and-flop-in bath; I mean a really good one, where you break out your various bottles of colored goo and perfume the entire bathroom with a scent stronger than a freaking Lush store. But wait – don’t get in yet.

First, position a speaker close enough to drown out the sounds of the rest of existence but far enough away so it doesn’t feel like John Legend is actually in the bath with you. Unless that’s your thing, in which case hell yes. Then, grab a tablet queued up with Netflix but nothing too romantic, nothing that will fuel the need to call your ex.

And lastly and perhaps most importantly, resist the urge to drink. It’s true that Bath Beers are the ultimate form of relaxation, but nothing makes it easier to bear your stripped soul to an ex-boyfriend than inebriation.

Just… bear your sole to fantasy John Legend instead. Chrissy won’t mind.

Bg28yZNIIAE_76vThis is her ‘feel free to objectify my husband’ face.



How to Keep Motherhood from Destroying Your Social Life

So you have kids but you don’t want to relinquish your white-knuckled grip on normalcy and fun. Firstly, congrats on your crotch fruits! Secondly, good fuckin’ luck.

When I only had one kid, it was pretty easy to tuck her into a carseat and cart her around wherever I went. My friends and I were young enough that a baby being around was still a cute novelty, sort of like a puppy but better since Snapchat filters worked on her face. I also had way more free time back then – I actually remember large gaps of boredom when Lucy was one where I’d be like ‘ugh, I have nothing to do. Guess I’ll go to Jess’ and abuse her HBO membership.’

Enter Atlas.

Two kids is a lot different than one kid. It somehow feels like instead of just doubling my kid number, I have somehow managed to quinquagintuple it. I have not been bored in seven months; I crave boredom. My free time has become a thing of the past – now, I actually schedule my activities. I’ve had to set aside an hour each Tuesday to write these damn blog posts because if I don’t write it down, it will 100% be forgotten or overwritten in favor of something more pressing, like pleading with my unimpressed infant to eat the liquefied green beans already.

reading-925589_1280Me, an intellectual, reading and absorbing words like quinquagintuple.

Between my kids tag-teaming their nap schedules and refusing to let me sit still for more than three minutes at a time (three minutes I spend staring dead-eyed at my phone like a True Millennial), there is not much time left over for myself, let alone for more other people.

So what do you do?

1. Have Amazing Friends in the First Place

The simple intro step is to surround yourself with loving, understanding people who don’t hold your chronic flakiness against you. They ideally knew you before kids, back when you were fun and available and had much perkier boobs. These people understand that you love them deeply even if you don’t check in every other day like you used to.

If you’re lucky, you get a friend like Jess, who will call you and leave sing-songy voicemails about her day without a single hint of aggravation that you missed her call yet again. These voicemails are excellent because you can listen to them while locked in the bathroom pretending not to see the tiny fingers pressed beneath the crack of the door and imagine you are somewhere else.

2. Make A List

So this one feels a little Charles Manson-y but hear me out. If we’re being honest here, your brain is likely a sieve these days. You can barely remember your latest kid’s birthday much less when the last time you spoke to your old coworker was. That’s why a list is handy for this situation: you can’t forget stuff when it’s written down in front of you.

My friend list exists in my notebook and if anyone saw it they’d probably think I was either a serial killer or Luna Lovegood-levels of dreamily deranged. That being said, it helps me. I’ve jotted down the name of every person I want to make sure I check up on – every person I want to make sure knows that I love them, even if I’m garbage at expressing it. Then, beside their name, I try to keep a date connoting the last time I reached out to them. It’s not foolproof, but it helps.

luna-lovegood-mural-courtney-godbeyIf yall don’t remember this part in the book, it’s time for a reread. … Actually, go reread anyway. It’s good for you.

3. Follow A Schedule

Okay, so you’ve got  your creepy friends list and you’ve got your determination to do better. Now how do you put this into practice?


That’s right! All the spontaneity of your youth is well and truly dead, so you might as well embrace it and start planning out things like light, friendly conversation. The way to do this is think ahead to when you’ll be driving, since for me, it’s impossible to have a phone conversation when I’m at home.

Instead I call people in the car. It works, since I’m effectively trapped. I can’t look around my wreck of a living room in despair and be distracted by all the shit I haven’t done; instead, I’m stuck in the car, happy to be talking to you since the alternative is the Sofia the First soundtrack again.

I plan these calls out by weeks. I try to call everyone at least once a month, though once every two weeks is more ideal. They don’t have to be long conversations – just enough to get the usual ‘hey, how are you, how’s work, what weird sex stuff have you done lately’ updates.

4. Apologize When You Need To (& Mean It)

Even with your handy-dandy schedule and the very best intentions, you are absolutely going to forget to call someone back. Maybe it’ll be worse – maybe you’ll straight up forget a lunch date, or god forbid someone’s birthday. In these instances, do the proper thing: nut up and say sorry. Don’t launch into a litany of excuses; your childless friends don’t want to hear about how little Brylynn-Rose pooped all the way up the back of her onesie again, or how you ran out of wipes so you had to do some shameful MacGyvering with handsoap and your own hair.

Just say sorry. You might be pissed since you’re trying your freaking best here and can’t everyone cut you some slack??? But you can’t be pissed at your friend, since they’re the wronged party and also not the one who knocked you up.  Unless they are, in which case… Why the hell were you using your own hair.

5. Cheat When Necessary

This one is only for when your friend is texting you thoughtful ‘checking up on you’ texts at 10 PM but you are incapable of forming human speech because you’ve been up since 3 AM. It’s okay – you don’t have to relearn the English language. Instead, go into your camera roll and select the best recent photo of your dog/cat and send it on over. Maybe tack on a slew of emojis if you’re feeling wild; really make it cute. Don’t have a dog or cat? Go fucking get one, you reprobate, I can’t do all the heavy lifting here.

Best Faraway Friend; The New-Age BFF

When it comes to acronyms, I’ve got my life on lock. I’ve got my BF Orie, who is actually my husband now but old habits die hard. I’ve got my MIL, who is my mother-in-love and my second mom. I’ve got my BFF Jess, who is my best friend forever and my actual better half. And then there’s my other BFF – my Best Faraway Friend, Els.

In this digital age of Tinder and texting, it is becoming increasingly common for people to ‘meet’ one another over the Internet. Oftentimes these friendships never leave the safety of the computer screen, but every now and then you hit on something that’s too good not to cling to. (Little known fact – I actually met Jessica online, something she threatened to reveal at my wedding during her maid of honor speech though I talked her down. )

10614320_10100885333900989_2537957258549490214_nActual footage of Jessica “I Don’t Need No Man” Francois on my wedding day.

This is the case with my friend Els, of Gin Sips & Red Lips fame. She and I met on a collaborative writing site and have been basically up each other’s butts ever since. I spent last November traipsing around England with her on a whim, since I had just moved near Boston, Brexit had collapsed the English pound, and damn were flights cheap.

But it’s not always stuffing Big Macs into your face outside of Windsor Palace; international friendships have their ups and downs too, and they provide you with some weird, unexpected skills and advantages. And this is a segue to a list.

1. You Always Know Exactly What Time It Is In Random-Ass Timezones

If you ever need to know the time in London, England, I got you. Seriously – I just need to glance at any clock near me to fire it out, since I am so conditioned to checking the time and doing some hasty addition (+6 hours, if you were curious) before sending Els a text. I can do this for Perth, Australia, too, since I’ve got a friend there, and Orlando, though that’s less impressive since it’s literally a one-hour difference.

2. You Master the Art of Pausing Media

One of the many mutual things that Els and I are both obsessed with is the Kingsman universe, so when the new Kingsman movie was coming out we had no choice but to rewatch the first one. And we obviously wanted to watch it together, which means we resorted to our tried-and-true method: queuing it up and then carefully, precisely, hitting ‘PLAY’ at the exact same time. If anyone has to pee at any point in the movie, it’s another careful synchronization to pause, and eventually you get really, really good at it.

3. You Download Garbage Apps Like Whatsapp

Sometimes your fancy international pals don’t have basic human civilities like iMessage and you wind up having to install a bunch of third-party chat clients onto your phone. Because it’s not like you can call them – you don’t have international data, and who has time for Skype anymore. Snapchat is a fair alternative.

4. You Overshare to a Dangerous Degree

The anonymity of the Internet is a beautiful, terrible thing, especially when it comes to your friendships. There’s something so freeing about typing words that you would never actually say to someone’s face. It’s because of this freedom that I can never run for president; I have said far too many foul, damning things about Harry Styles to ever hope of winning the Christian vote.

5. You Learn a Bunch of Weird Slang You Probably Shouldn’t Know

I have an excessive, borderline-obsessive knowledge of British slang now, thanks mostly to J.K. Rowling but helped along greatly by my English Internet friends. For example, I can tell you that I can’t be arsed to watch the new GBBO since it’s rubbish without Mel and Sue. I also pride myself in being able to understand most chavvy accents, but that’s half-because I’m disgustingly into it.

giphyI blame Matthew Vaughn.

6. You Always Have Someone to Talk To, Even at 3 A.M.

Thanks to those pesky timezones, more often than not you and your Best Faraway Friend won’t have the same sleeping patterns. This is aggravating when it’s eleven p.m. and you’re a little drunk and you wanna call her to talk shit about the new season of AHS, but nice when you wake up in the morning to three texts about dogs she saw on the tube and 2 snapchats of what she’s having for lunch.

It’s also nice when it’s the middle of the night and your seven-month-old infant still won’t sleep through the night, and you wish you had someone to talk to. That’s when you whip out your phone and reach out to your Best Faraway Friend, who is so excited to hear from you in the morning that it almost makes up for the fact that sleep deprivation is making you hallucinate black spots in the edges of your vision.



The #MeToo Movement

To all of the women and men coming forward and joining the #MeToo movement, I hear you, and I appreciate you. It takes courage to speak about such deep scars, and more courage still to hold your head up in the face of a society that’s more offended by victims sharing their stories than it is by ‘locker room talk.’

But my message is for all of the women and men who aren’t. To them I want to say this: it’s okay to leave your Facebook status blank. You’re not weak if you don’t want to air your most painful trauma to the world; you don’t owe anyone your story. I’m telling you this because I need it to be true, because the very idea of naming my assailants and tipping the careful house of cards I’ve spent years building makes me feel small and scared.

But for me, it’s become important.

If not for you to read, then for me to tell. I have a daughter now and as she gets older, I can see the woman she will become. I can see that she will be beautiful, and I can see that she will be forceful, and I can see that she will be desired. It’s cowardly that I could not speak out for myself, that it took my daughter transitioning from babyhood to girlhood to realize that what happened to me was wrong. But I realize it now, and I want any girls who have had experiences like mine to know that it’s not your fault. You are not your assaults. You are not your failure for ‘allowing’ yourself to be taken advantage of. You are not a bitch for speaking out.

Both of my most egregious assailants were people I knew, one remotely, one not. Both of them were ‘nice boys,’ both with surnames that carried weight. As a teenager, I had a reputation for craving attention. I would act in ways that garnered attention – from guys, from friends, from adults, from whomever. When I finally got too much of this attention, all I could think was that it was what I had coming to me. I had taunted the serpent and it had bitten me; it was my fault.

The first time I was assaulted I was in high school and I was visiting friends at a nearby college. They were two boys. I had lied to my mom about where I was staying. I went with a girlfriend, and she and I made plans to take care of each other.

I don’t remember drinking. I have always had a supremely low tolerance for alcohol, so it seems very unlikely that I simply wouldn’t have noticed alcohol in my drink. And yet I ended up vomiting at an outdoor music performance, sick enough to necessitate carrying home. The boy who carried me was the boy who had made my drinks; he was annoyed that I got vomit on his shoes, and he made me very aware that I ‘owed him.’ He said it like he was joking, so I laughed. I didn’t want him to think I was a bitch.

Many hours later, I woke up and it was dark. I was lying on a mattress on a floor, and the same boy was on top of me. He was moving against my body even though I was sleeping. It felt wrong, and weird, and it made my stomach feel sick, like I might throw up again. I chalked it up to the ‘drinking’ I had done, even though I didn’t remember ever drinking. I pretended like I was asleep until he stopped. He never stopped, and I didn’t push him off. I didn’t want him to think I was a bitch.

After that, I started a stilted, strange relationship with my assailant. It was weird to me, to think of it as rape; he was clearly into me, clearly cared about me. It felt somehow better to me in my head to carry on the charade that he started when he told people we had ‘hooked up,’ when he told people how much he liked me, how he couldn’t believe I finally returned his affections. That was a much nicer story than ‘I raped her in the dark,’ and so I latched onto it. I became his girlfriend. Every time we fooled around, I felt that same, sick feeling, but I still preferred that to thinking of myself as a victim.

I finally broke up with him before leaving for college, and I apologized profusely. He loathed me and made it known, blasting me to all of our friends and effectively blacking me out of that social circle. But to this day, what upsets me most is I had apologized to him – I didn’t want him to think I was a bitch.

The next time I was assaulted I was in my first month of college. I went with my girlfriends to a fraternity party; we were all drinking and we were all underage. The boy who took me back to his dorm had to help me walk the entire way there since I was too drunk to stand, too drunk to speak properly. I think he had been drinking, too.

I knew my assailant. He was from my hometown. Before I blacked out, I remember him telling me that he had ‘always wanted to get with me.’ I don’t know what I said to that – I think I was uncomfortable, so I laughed. I didn’t want to seem like a bitch by telling him ‘dream on, buddy.’ At seventeen, I really thought the worst thing I could be called was a bitch.

After he half-carried me back to his room, I don’t really remember what happened. I just remember that I was too drunk to use my phone and I think I threw up. I know that we had sex because I could feel it in my body, and to this day I have strange, half-smeared memories of him breathing onto my neck. I know I left, since I remember stumbling to another dorm in the same building – my childhood next-door neighbor, who asked me what had happened. I didn’t want to tell him so I laughed; I was too embarrassed, and I didn’t want him to think I was a bitch. I really thought the worst thing I could be called was a bitch.

In both of these instances, I lied to myself. I entered into a relationship with my first assailant willingly and continued to sleep with him, all in an effort to convince myself that it had never been assault. Someone who loved you couldn’t assault you, I thought. With the second one, I simply let it go. I was embarrassed; to confess it made me sound like a slut, or made me sound like a bitch. This guy was well-liked, after all. I told one friend and she seemed uncomfortable, saying ‘he wouldn’t do that.’ I agreed; I must have been into it. I lied to myself and accepted that it had been consensual.

Months later, that same neighbor of mine mentioned it in passing, teasing me good-naturedly for ‘sleeping’ with that guy. It was a punch to the gut; I suddenly felt like crying, or vomiting, or screaming. I wanted to tell him that I hadn’t wanted to, that it hadn’t been my choice, that he had taken something from me that I could never get back. I didn’t say that, though; god forbid he think me a bitch.

At seventeen, I really thought the worst thing I could be called was a bitch.

I’m telling my stories only because I am older now and secure. I am healed enough to share them without shame, and I am supported enough to close them up in my past. But not everyone has this luxury, and that’s okay. You don’t have to air your dirty laundry in order to join this movement; you can keep your silence until you’re ready, or until forever. We’re telling our stories so you don’t have to.

You don’t need to wear your assault on your shirt like a badge. You can keep it tucked into your heart, a wound healing over, as long as you don’t let it consume you. And know that even if you’re silent, I see you; I believe you. I know your hurt, and I will hold your hand.

I might just need you to hold me, too.


5 Quick, Affordable Halloween Costumes for the Once-Enterprising Millennial

Halloween is coming up and you’re broke as hell but still wanna boast a unique, clever costume. Don’t worry – I’ve got you. Here are 5 Halloween costume ideas guaranteed to make you the hit of the party you’ll regret attending after too many vodka cranberries cause you to sleep with Kylo Ren.

1. A Quarter-life Crisis

If you’re in your early to mid-twenties, chances are you’ve already wasted lived a quarter of your life. All of your easy, carefree years are behind you, and now you have a lifetime of bill-paying and responsibilities ahead.  In five years you’ll be close to thirty; in ten years, you’ll be edging close to forty. If you die at seventy, that’s half your life gone! You’ve basically got one foot in the grave! Wow,  you really shouldn’t have pissed away all of your youth, but there’s still time to cling to what’s left – you can do this by dyeing your hair a wacky color, or joining a roller derby team, or taking an impulse job across the country!

For this costume you will need one potent panic attack, a bottle of Arctic Fox Violet Dream hair dye, and a pint of Halo Top ice cream for when you inevitably burst into tears and shout “but I had plans!”

2. Early Onset Fear of Mortality

If the Quarter-life Crisis costume isn’t your thing, no big. You can shift gears only slightly and go as Early Onset Fear of Mortality! All that life-expectancy math from above likely had you sweating slightly as you realized that you’re quickly flipping through the chapters of your life, and the final chapter – Death – is looming ever closer on the horizon. This probably makes you question your entire spiritual belief system, and you’re thinking that deep down, in your gut, no matter what you were told on Sunday mornings as a child, there is nothing after death. Simply nothing. It all just ends, and the world continues without you, and eventually everyone forgets your name and the sound of your voice, and your body, once so powerful and full of vigor, becomes a brittle husk of what could have been.

For this costume you will need a sudden wave of nauseating depression, a decade’s worth of pent-up screams, and a set of fishnet tights.

For the tasteful mental breakdown.

3. Pit of Existential Despair

Maybe the Fear of Mortality is only a passing terror and you’ve made peace with the fact that you will someday die and be forgotten. But with thoughts of death come thoughts of purpose, things such as ‘what is the point of it all?’ and ‘what am I doing that’s worthwhile?’ For some of us, these thoughts are terrifying since it feels like we’re doing nothing with our lives. I mean, some of us aren’t even monetizing our blogs, for Christ’s sake – that’s right! All these posts are meaningless! My life is meaningless! I am meaningless!

For this costume you will need an unexpectedly violent crying jag, a well-meaning friend telling you that ‘you are doing something, you’re raising two kids!’, and really heavy black liner on the top and bottom lids.

4. Inevitable Nihilistic Apathy

Another #relatable costume guaranteed to get lots of Instagram likes is Inevitable Nihilistic Apathy. This is when you embrace the fact that there is no reason for doing anything, and acknowledge that death is the only constant. All things of importance are only constructs and you are tired of pretending to live for any grander purpose. Instead, you are going to be governed purely by your own base drives because there is literally no reason not to.

For this costume you will need a shattered spirit, a handle of Russian vodka, and a Costco-sized box of condoms.

5. Any character from the Suicide Squad but, like, ironically

Remember this trainwreck of a movie? Yeah you do! God, it was so bad, right? So bad. Jared Leto’s Joker was the worst, wow, what a joke. So why not go as any of the lead characters? Don’t worry – people will totally get that you’re making fun of it, and you’ll definitely be the only Harley Quinn at the party.

For this costume you will need absolutely no self-respect, a cropped baseball bearing a trite slogan, and the guarantee of at least four overzealous, overweight nerds telling you why Jack Nicholson was better.

deluxe-suicide-squad-harley-quinn-costumeAll women are deserving of respect but some are more deserving than others.

Why Every Girl Needs A Kim

It’s not a secret that I’m going through a slump right now. You can tell because of my whiny, self-indulgent previous post, plus the fact that I keep missing weeks of blogging which (I like to think) is unusual for me. I nearly missed this week, too; I watched as the afternoon came and went, hours smearing by in a haze of fussing kids, an overexcited puppy, a gnarly chest cold, and financial stress – so, basically, the same woes as every middle-class mom in America. I felt pitiful, and even more pitiful because of how hilariously unspecial my stressors were. It’s hard to feel motivated to do something fresh and special when you yourself feel so distinctly un-special.


Getty Images is full of well-groomed white women pulling at their hair. It’s kind of our thing.

But that’s why you have a Kim.

My Kim is the original Kim. She’s a girl who, in this age of online dating and Tumblr friendships, I’ve never actually met in person. That fact might once have made our friendship feel ‘lesser’ to me, but that word seems so out of place in relation to anything about Kim. She is in no ways lesser, except maybe in height, but we’ll forgive her that.

She’s amazing: she’s a lawyer-in-training, a whetted writer, an open spirit, an earnest soul. She’s also a bleeding heart, but the rare sort whose heart bleeds and then she does something about it – she’s never scared to back her words up with action. She’s the single greatest embodiment of #girlshelpinggirls I’ve ever met, since she likes to brag about her friends’ talents to anyone and everyone without an ounce of sheepishness or irony. She’s amazing because everything she is, she is openly, and honestly, and fiercely, and passionately.

My Kim is my constant cheerleader when she has no reason to be. We’re long-distance friends; my sour moods and blue days don’t affect her. We don’t have to share a living space, or work hours, or gym time. She could just as easily offer me platitudes and catch me when I felt better, but that’s not how she works. Instead, she’s there, sending me unsolicited Snapchats of her friends in stitches as they read my blog posts, never afraid or embarrassed to say ‘I think you’re great. You should think so, too.’ It’s always stark, and honest, and genuine, and whenever my Kim tells me that I’m worth it – whatever ‘it’ may be – I believe her.

My Kim makes me want to be a Kim. She makes me want to be better, but not the usual ‘better’ that I think of when I think of self-improvement, the kind of self-improvement that only focuses on the ‘self.’ Instead, I want to be like her. I want to go out into the world and cheerlead every girl I meet, interlace my fingers and offer a boost or open my arms and offer a squeeze. I want to read their writing, hear their music, study their art, inhale their intelligence and say ‘holy shit! You did this, and that’s amazing, and you‘re amazing!’ and mean it.

In this day in age – no, scratch that. In every day and age, every girl needs a Kim. And where there’s a void, it’s up to us to fill it. So be like Kim. Be supportive, be strong, be smart, be brave. Be unashamed to say how you feel to your friends who inspire you, and take the time out whenever you think of it to tell someone that she is loved. Don’t burn yourself up to keep others warm – Kim would never do that – but instead, draw people into your light. Bring them closer to your warm. Be like Kim.

Every girl needs a Kim.

I’d offer you mine, but frankly, I need her too much.


September Shortcomings

You guys, I’m sorry. I’m not great at keeping up with this lately. But it turns out it’s actually incredibly difficult and time-consuming attempting to be a well-rounded human being. I am barely keeping my head above water these days; I’m just treading in place, fighting against the burning in my thighs and trying not to drown.

In the last 72 hours alone, I have managed to:

  1. Extricate myself from an unhealthy, vampiric relationship with a client who underpaid, overpromised, and refused to let me do my job effectively
  2. Get into a fight with my mother over something ridiculous and trivial, which is incredibly rare these days and always leaves me feeling unmoored and spent
  3. Avoid getting into a fight with my father which was a small miracle seeing as he regards everything I do with a sort of muted, pervasive disappointment if not flat out disinterest
  4. Get a new dog, who is super amazing
  5. Cry a lot
  6. Pretend like I haven’t been crying when Orie walks in to check on me
  7. Fail and cry some more
  8. Secure Fastpasses for the November Disney trip that we’re taking with my mom, who I’m currently fighting with
  9. Finish a book
  10. Regret buying Franzia after one glass because of course I regret it, it’s fucking Franzia
  11. Jog a lot
  12. Glare at the stubborn flab on my belly that seems content to stay post-baby #2
  13. Glare at the stubborn flab that is baby #2 as he insists upon waking me up twice a night
  14. Decide after 2 more glasses that Franzia isn’t so bad and hey, things seem a lot softer and rosier now
  15. Watch Lucy play outside with the dog and remember being 4 when everything was lovely and sunny and fight back the urge to cry again.
about-house-blushFranzia is my family.

So basically, I’m in a weird place right now. And I can’t even whine at Jessica to pick up my slack and post instead of me, since she’s still dealing with the fallout from Hurricane Irma.

What are yalls suggestions for being less of a suck? I could definitely use them.