Dear Everyone Who Says This To Me,
"Must be nice to work at home! My house would be spotless!"
I just need you to know it's very difficult for me not to reply:
"Working at home + Spotless House = You are doing it wrong."
Because the operative word here? WORKING. It's no less work than if I was in a traditional office. I don't get any less calls or emails than I would had I fought traffic to get somewhere to receive them. I do not have time to watch your children, nor my own. I'm working. Just because you can physically see me if you walk to my front door does not mean that I'm not working.
Can I throw in a load of laundry? Absolutely I can (and do). Can I complete all my work whilst wearing a pair of shorts that are four sizes too big (and have a huge hole in the back. Because I'm sexy) and a shirt that says "Prose Before Hos"? Yes indeed. Do I have a long conversation with my dog about her plans for the weekend? Only sometimes. She's fickle.
Am I thankful that I'm not driving 72 miles a day anymore? YOU BET YOUR SWEET AUNT BIPPY.
Make no mistake. I am thankful for my job, thankful for every opportunity I have and especially thankful that some of my opportunities come in the form of my own home and a pair of old crappy shorts. I don't take advantage of that. I never will.
See you after work,
Dear People who might be interested in donating to such a thing,
I'm walking in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer. Yes, again. And so far? I've raised 1% of my goal. Lame.
So if you'd like to help I'd be so very happy. I will jump up and down and clap my hands and squeal like a girl. Cause that's how I do.
And for those of you who get irritated by things like this, yes. I know I'm a sell-out and my blog sucks and I'm an idiot and blah, blah, blah. Whatever. Everyone likes boobs. So be nice.
For the love of God and all that is Holy could you please do whatever is necessary to keep your child from running about completely nude from the waist down?
Okay, I know he's two. And big deal, right? And I should probably be more concerned about the fact that he's in the fracking street at 10:30pm and also on my porch most mornings when I take my dog out at seven o'clock because seriously? Why the hell don't you know where your kid is? There are these magical things called "doors" and you might want to consider locking yours.
But I digress. Put some pants on that kid.
As sad and horrible as it is, there are some sick perverts in this world. And even though your kid is a really little thing, he doesn't need to be potentially exposing his junk to them. They are freaks. And as your child is, um, unattended quite a bit? They might take that as an invitation.
A diaper is fine, seriously. Just cover that mess up.
Mrs. Carlos Spicyweiner*
*I don't like my neighbors to know my actual name. I'm sure it's not obvious why.
Dear Chick I used to know,
Okay, I'm (admittedly) a dick, so I will confess that I have enjoyed making fun of you for several years now. I mean, the purple eyeshadow/blue mascara combo you rocked back in 1986? Priceless even then.
However, I was alarmed when I recently stalked you on Facebook and observed that you are still wearing this same combo. STILL. Not only are you still wearing this (and I don't even know where one would purchase blue mascara these days), you are currently also rocking the big mom purse, the mom jeans and the fugly white tennis shoes. All at the same time.
Honey. It's not pretty.
I, as evidenced by my shorts/t-shirt confession in the above letter, am far from what one would call fashionable. But seriously? You've just given up. And even though I haven't cared for you in many, many years this makes me quite sad.
So you've gained weight. You aren't a size six (or whatever) anymore. You don't have to walk around dressed like your my mom.
Okay, actually? My mom is a pretty snappy dresser. You don't have to walk around dressed like YOUR MOM. Because even twenty-five years ago? Your mom dressed like an old lady.
You aren't old. You're my age and God knows *I'M* not old. So neither are you. And you'd be just fine if you got yourself a nice pair of peep-toe pumps, some shirts that don't look potato sacks and some brown mascara. No one wears blue mascara anymore, not even my niece who sometimes wears colors that I'm fairly certain aren't part of the rainbow, even. Also? She's SEVENTEEN. You are THIRTY-SIX. Stop it.
So as much as I enjoy mocking you for your choices (not only in fashion, but also in life) it's also bumming me out quite a lot and I hope you'll take my advice as it is intended. Friendly and helpful.
If you choose not to take my advice the way it was intended? Well. Bite me.