About me: I'm 40 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 8-year-old Junior, our 5-year-old Everett, our baby and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Leave me alone
I'm in a bad mood today and, crazily enough, it has nothing to do with the male species and everything to do with the female: the ones who are supposed to be the nurturers, the healers, the nicey-nicers.
To be more specific, I'm pointing my finger at the women in their forties and fifties who stayed home with their kids and are now back in the workforce a mere 20 years later for the sole reason of driving me insane with their f*&^ing questions.
“How aaaaaaaare you?”
“How is the baaaaaaaaaaaby?”
“Who is watching him?” (Instead of explaining the work-from-home dad/babysitter/grandma arrangement, I am going to start saying, “I’m not sure” and shrug my shoulders).
Look, my issue is not with the questions themselves. I remind myself that they come from a place of concern. It’s the way they’re posed—it reminds me of those bottomfeeder reporters on the news who ask a murdered victim’s family how they feel:
“How does it feel to see your slain brother lying on the sidewalk, knowing that the killer is probably sitting at Friendly’s right now eating a Jubilee ice cream roll while you and your family struggle to pick up the pieces?”
The absolute worst are the women who ask you the details of your workweek under the pretense of empathizing. Cut the shit. You don’t give a shit about my workweek. You just want to hear the dirty details so you can pat me on the shoulder and say, “I could never do what you do”—like I’m some kind of vigilant out there fighting for the greater good while you sit on your ass eating S’Mores and Spam, cuddling the wee ones by the fire.
I’m so brave. So tough.
Well screw you.
Who said having a child meant surrendering your entire self? Forgive me for liking adult interaction. For deriving a sense of purpose from professional accomplishments.
What happened to “Live and let live?” Or “Give me liberty or give me death?” (that was Patrick Henry and no, I’m not a history buff, I’m trying to lighten the mood—is it a little, um, hot in here?).
Can’t we all just hold hands and sing Koombaya?
More importantly, can’t we all just stop asking each other how we are?