The Housewife in Me


I picked up a vintage British book right before our wedding called “101 Things For The Housewife To Do.” I’m not a housewife in the traditional sense because I have a paying job (and zero talent or interest), but according to this book, I’m really not a wartime housewife from 1949.

I bought the book because the blurb made me laugh so loud, a mirthless grinch reading Ayn Rand actually shushed me in the bookstore. (Dear Grinch: Please stick to your unromantic dinners for one, kthanks.)

The back said:

“If you can learn to lift your ribs right out of your waist, and to let them expand outwards…you will soon develop that “upward buoyant poise” which is the secret of grace and which would bring less drudgery and more joy to the daily dusting, bedmaking, picture straightening, and all the dozens of things which go towards making your home beautiful.”

From this, I made some judgment calls about the British housewives of 1949:

-Rib removal = no big deal. These bitches were hardcore. Go ahead and blood-eagle yourself in the name of grace and dusting.

-Housewives have considered housework a drag since the beginning of Time, or at least the 1940’s.

-“Upward buoyant poise” seems like an unnecessarily high bar for cleaning out toilets.

-Bedmaking? (That’s not really a judgment, I just don’t know what it entails since I have a duvet.)

-Apparently pictures went askew at an alarming rate back then.

In 1949, this book was basically the internet for women. Instead of online advice from Martha or the FlyLady, they sat down, lit what I assume was a hundred candles, and educated themselves on wifing a household.

Husband: You know they had electricity back in the 1940’s, right?

Me: Shut up.

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Greetings from The Minimally Diseased



I made little bargains in my head all day before getting my biopsy results. It felt like a prayer kind of afternoon, so I prayed to my favorite Elizabethan ladygods: Liz Lemon, Elizabeth Gilbert, and Amy Beth Schumer. Couldn’t recall the correct format for praying so I was like

Hayyy, bitches

Y’all better bring it today

And whatever it is, make it funny




PS: Also, amen

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Donut Motivation


Don’t be jealous of how good I am at making motivational posters (SEE ABOVE). The last week was kind of a slag – lots of organizing, and crying my way through two seasons of Call The Midwife – so I needed a little pick-me-up. The donut kind. But since I can’t really eat one donut without eating an entire murder of donuts, I had to content myself with a motivational internet donut instead (SEE ABOVE). Which P.S. looks good but tastes like shit.

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The Bearable Fatness of Being


Did you hear the sound of a thousand trumpets heralding the return of my knees? Because after a three-month hiatus, they are back and not-quite better than ever. No more boneless elephant legs for this alleged human female! No more wondering how much fat and fury my kneecaps can endure.

Dear Instagram: Get ready for a deluge of sexy knee selfies today.

Being fat for most of my life hasn’t been terribly hard on me, at least no harder than any other psychological challenge. It seems like people who were extra hot when they were young have a difficult time being fat later on – they have much to compare to, from memories to photos – but that was never the case with me. I’ve always been this way, and by that I mean Polynesian, with brief bouts of having the flu and looking unintentionally good for the next few weeks.

If being overweight had a motto, it might be “Eat what you want, invest in yoga pants, and never take the stairs.” I’ve lived by that motto for so long it should be tattooed across my chest in Olde English lettering.

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Kidney Thunderdome: A Health Story

Last week I had one of those dreams where you know you are dreaming but don’t want to wake up, even if that means you are dead and will have to be buried in cake-themed pajamas. I won’t say the dream was pornographic, exactly, but I wouldn’t say it wasn’t pornographic. It was just MY kind of sexy.



The dream consisted of me eating a neverending supply of Cool Ranch Doritos. Each chip was the ideal shape – a perfect triangle, no broken halfsies or fold-overs – and each one had an obscene amount of Cool Ranch Dorito dust on both sides. I sat in the sun for hours, licking the dust off each chip in slow motion, while basking in what I’ve come to recognize as carb euphoria. Inhaling those Cool Ranch Doritos brought me closer to my authentic self – a new kind of mindfulness! – and completed me in ways no platitudes from Oprah ever could.

Welcome to Week 7 of my life without salt.

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