I didn't have any time to blog last week because I was busy. What's that, busy? Me? No. But I am not going to the office and my kid can't even walk yet, can't even talk. What is it that I DO all day? Surely I am not BUSY.
Reader, perhaps you are clever and can see I'm about to go off on a long and pitilessly boring rant. I'd like to apologize in advance, but only pro forma, because as I shall convincingly argue here, I deserve your sympathy.
Last night I went to bed planning to blog about some fun things that happened on the weekend. But this morning I awoke to find more cat pee in the hallway and my heart was filled with the blackest rage. A dark cloud descended and I realized (how did I fail to see it before?) that I am the victim of countless horrors.
There is a sticky spot on the living room floor of indeterminable provenance and when I look upon its tacky face I hate it. I hate it for existing, for catching lint, for making me stoop to clean it up.
And I hate its family. The other cursed sticky spots - be GONE, you foul flat beasts - and their distant cousins, the dustballs and the dirty dishes. I hate their cnidarian immortality, the way they sprout new limbs, keep walking, always return in defiance of science and morality.
I am Sisyphus; no, I am Prometheus - and these coffee grounds do mock my pain.
Some old exhortation about joyful hearts flickers briefly across my mind but I stamp it out like a weak bug. Unsatisfied by my generalized fury, I set upon a hairy sock that is not mine but which belongs to my husband. That cretin. Oh God and these pants of his on the floor, doubtless a provocation.
Is he trying to say that in addition to everything else I am now solely responsible for the laundering of his clothes, that I have nothing better to do than scrape his rags off the bedroom floor, that my time is less valuable than his time and that since I look after our child I am effectively his cleaning lady? Because I have news for him, that man, this guy, my husband. I will not be taunted into washing your pants AGAIN, sir, no! Not for me, SIR, your pants, again. Actually, I might even wash your pants for you, as a favor, because I am lovely and kind, but I will not have you mindlessly expecting washed pants. I am a feminist, for fuck's sake.
I suddenly yearn for the kind company, virtual or physical, of those awesome and supportive Sisters, with or without kids, who say nice things and are self-deprecating and hilarious. I want to braid your hair and be like you. Briefly, the ice in my heart melts.
But not for long. As I storm about collecting the raft of waste paper that has accreted on our furniture (receipts, price tags, and magazine inserts entreating me to subscribe at a discount: to you I say DAAHHHH) I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and my ire takes another turn. Surely it is someone else's fault that I am still so fat.
Actually, that's probably just my fault, which is why this is an unpleasant train of thought. But you know who sucks though? Those Other Women. Those judging harridans who are not among the handful of awesome and uplifting Sisters, but instead want you to know that whatever you are going through now, you are wrong and it gets worse. To those women who would like me to feel worse so that they can feel better, and while I'm at it, to those women who would have me believe that pacifiers breed 26-year-old thumbsuckers: F*** you. All of you. You are not helping.
***
Glad I got that out of my system. And now, you know who's awake? My daughter. Who is also daughter of my gorgeous husband. She has this smile.
Unfortunately for her, she also has a mother who is blatantly insane. Don't look at me though. That's someone else's fault.
Reader, perhaps you are clever and can see I'm about to go off on a long and pitilessly boring rant. I'd like to apologize in advance, but only pro forma, because as I shall convincingly argue here, I deserve your sympathy.
Last night I went to bed planning to blog about some fun things that happened on the weekend. But this morning I awoke to find more cat pee in the hallway and my heart was filled with the blackest rage. A dark cloud descended and I realized (how did I fail to see it before?) that I am the victim of countless horrors.
There is a sticky spot on the living room floor of indeterminable provenance and when I look upon its tacky face I hate it. I hate it for existing, for catching lint, for making me stoop to clean it up.
And I hate its family. The other cursed sticky spots - be GONE, you foul flat beasts - and their distant cousins, the dustballs and the dirty dishes. I hate their cnidarian immortality, the way they sprout new limbs, keep walking, always return in defiance of science and morality.
I am Sisyphus; no, I am Prometheus - and these coffee grounds do mock my pain.
Some old exhortation about joyful hearts flickers briefly across my mind but I stamp it out like a weak bug. Unsatisfied by my generalized fury, I set upon a hairy sock that is not mine but which belongs to my husband. That cretin. Oh God and these pants of his on the floor, doubtless a provocation.
Is he trying to say that in addition to everything else I am now solely responsible for the laundering of his clothes, that I have nothing better to do than scrape his rags off the bedroom floor, that my time is less valuable than his time and that since I look after our child I am effectively his cleaning lady? Because I have news for him, that man, this guy, my husband. I will not be taunted into washing your pants AGAIN, sir, no! Not for me, SIR, your pants, again. Actually, I might even wash your pants for you, as a favor, because I am lovely and kind, but I will not have you mindlessly expecting washed pants. I am a feminist, for fuck's sake.
I suddenly yearn for the kind company, virtual or physical, of those awesome and supportive Sisters, with or without kids, who say nice things and are self-deprecating and hilarious. I want to braid your hair and be like you. Briefly, the ice in my heart melts.
But not for long. As I storm about collecting the raft of waste paper that has accreted on our furniture (receipts, price tags, and magazine inserts entreating me to subscribe at a discount: to you I say DAAHHHH) I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and my ire takes another turn. Surely it is someone else's fault that I am still so fat.
Actually, that's probably just my fault, which is why this is an unpleasant train of thought. But you know who sucks though? Those Other Women. Those judging harridans who are not among the handful of awesome and uplifting Sisters, but instead want you to know that whatever you are going through now, you are wrong and it gets worse. To those women who would like me to feel worse so that they can feel better, and while I'm at it, to those women who would have me believe that pacifiers breed 26-year-old thumbsuckers: F*** you. All of you. You are not helping.
***
Glad I got that out of my system. And now, you know who's awake? My daughter. Who is also daughter of my gorgeous husband. She has this smile.
Unfortunately for her, she also has a mother who is blatantly insane. Don't look at me though. That's someone else's fault.
Keine Kommentare:
Kommentar veröffentlichen