Stop whining. That’s all we have to say to you.
Who is we? Me and basically the entire internet. You wanted to be a stay-at-home mom? You wanted to live on the Upper West Side? You wanted two kids? You got it all plus a dog walker, housekeeper, dry cleaning service, and delivery groceries. How do we know? You write about it on your blog. Oh, the travesty of your nanny being out sick when you’re supposed to get your va-jay-jay waxed and bedazzled.
And you’re so lonely, your blogging community is your only family when your husband works more than anything else. Let me clue you in: SOMEONE has to pay for your lifestyle.
What about a single mom who has to work to put food on the table and pay for benefits, and has a small sliver of a life?
Yeah, I didn’t think you thought about that in your 1% of the 1% blog with blinders securely fastened to your face.
You should.
So stop complaining.
K?
UnAffectionately yours,
The UnAffectionate Blogger
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Feelings twist in my gut when I read this. Andrea’s example hit close to home, and despite her brushing me off, I want to email her and tell her she’s right.
Instead of sleeping, that’s what I do.
Andrea,
Hi, it’s been a while. I know you’re busy, but I wanted to say you’re dead accurate in your post to Wall Street Wife. Her perspective is obviously skewed, and your example of the single mom hit close to home for me. I’m full-on dating one now, and I promise you, it’s a delicate balance.
Anyway, as for me, I’m going to spend a year doing the blog big-time, plus I’m creating a discussion board with chat rooms for men to talk about cooking, grilling, and beard maintenance. Lucky for me, I know a lot of tech peeps at work, and we’re working on the interface now. I’m going to really give this a go. Thanks to your advice.
Talk soon,
Reid
“Mommy, look!” That’s basically all I’ve heard all weekend.
“I see, baby girl,” I tell Gabby, spying the giant balloons shaped like Spider-Man.
“Can I go look?”
“Of course,” I tell her, which is basically all I’ve said for three days. “Of course! Yes!”
It’s been my entire Universal Studios talk track.
Look, we’re on vacation for free. Not free-free because, after all, I’m working, but free without hitting our bottom line. But that’s not what I’ve told Gabby. She thinks I won this trip from my medical transcription department, because she’s a gullible kid. I don’t expect her to lie for me, nor do I expect her to understand the truth.
I’ve made my own bed when it comes to lying. It doesn’t matter whether others understand or not ... I have to support my daughter. Period.
Adjusting my crossbody bag full of camera equipment and raincoats, I shove any leftover Reid-related anxiety out of my mind. In reality, this has been a pretty sweet gig—capturing photos, observing, and making notes—while giving me some precious time with my daughter.
Like now, Gabby is eyeing the balloons with puppy-dog eyes.
“Gabbs, we’re going home in the morning. We can’t take it on the plane.”
“Awww.” She’s pouting and I feel myself relenting, but I can’t today. We’re back to reality tomorrow.
