I’m about to stop being polite and start getting real, y’all.
(…omg stop no way no you’re not you’re just curvy you’re so pretty you’re not that fat you’re just big-boned…)
Look, I’m not chubby or chunky or thick or big-boned or curvy…I am a fat lady. I’ve been varying degrees of fat for most of my life, and while I can blame a very small part of that on a combination of lousy genetics, getting older and having a kid, the majority of my weight issues come from my borderline-obsessive love of doughnuts and poor eating habits…
The whole thing started because my husband likes to pee outside.
We’re not weirdos. We live on several acres of woods and don’t have neighbors. Yes, it’s peaceful. Yes, we’re very lucky. Yes, we have bears. (No, we’re not moving somewhere closer to civilization, Dad!) There’s a deck off of his office, and (if the mood strikes in the evening), my husband enjoys standing out there, taking in the sweet sounds of the evening forest…and peeing on it.
Don’t pretend like you wouldn’t do the exact same thing if given the opportunity.
It was during one of these evening respites…
My Dear Sir,
I hope this letter finds you well, and that I did not offend by assuming that you identify as “sir.” Perhaps your preferred title is Dude? Or Bro? Or DudeBro? Please know that I write this letter as a token of my utmost respect and admiration.
Saturday last I found myself in dire need of various sundries and middle-aged white lady necessities; matching patio cushions, scented candles, wooden Made-in-Taiwan signs displaying “Live Laugh Love” in a fancy font, etc. As I perused the Home section of my local Target store, silently yearning for times long past when…
Deck the halls with strangers’ cast-offs, falalala la la la la! Yard Sale Season is upon us!
For those unfamiliar, Yard Sale Season is the second most magical season in a Pennsylvanian’s life, second only to Deer Season, which follows shortly after. Yard Sale Season is that glorious time betwixt the very first spring thaw and the very last fallen oak leaf. It’s a time when communities come together in the spirit of peace and love and old junk.
Oh, I don’t have any advice on how to spot a great deal or how to haggle. That’s not what we’re…
I’ve started then deleted my opening sentence about seven times, and somewhere in my head I can hear your soft, sweet voice speaking to me from the beyond:
“Oh Jesus Christ, Stinkweed. Is this a dead mom story? That’s a little…ugh…pander-y, don’t you think? “
You’re probably right. In the 36 years I got to have with you, you were right about most everything. I’m glad I had the opportunity to tell you that in person…the exception, of course, being the years 1991–1997 when you were wrong about eeeeeeeverything and never understood me!, …
I’m nervous as I write this. I worry that I’m subconsciously writing it for selfish reasons. I worry that it’s unfocused. I worry that it will be received poorly. I worry that I’ll offend. I worry about a lot of things.
I’m an educator. The majority of my students are in their late teens and come from urban and underserved areas.
That’s my professional elevator pitch for strangers.
…And while that is true, let’s cut the PC bullshit and get straight to the answers of the frequently asked questions that typically come from my more conservative friends and neighbors:
Full disclosure: I have no idea what I’m doing.
I am a middle-aged suburban(ish) working mom, and in 2019, Netflix told me that Tidying Up With Marie Kondo was required viewing for all of us middle-aged suburban(ish) working moms. But I totally blew off the assignment and went to the mall with my friends instead. From what I’ve pieced together from the other middle-aged suburban(ish) working moms who actually do have their life together (or at least pretend well), Marie Kondo is an organization expert who suggests that if an object doesn’t spark joy, it shouldn’t be in your home.
My dear readers. I need you all to take a deep breath and say this with me: Schitt’s Creek is over.
I know that was hard, but it’s important to speak those words into the universe so that the healing can begin. When the Levy family (Eugene, Dan and oft-overlooked Uncle Fred) announced that their little Canadian TV series of pure perfection and light would end after its sixth season, we all fell into our own (hopefully) metaphorical pits of despair. As of this writing, it’s been two days shy of a full year since the CBC and POP Channel…