Through the years, people have given me shit tons of parenting advice and warnings, but no one prepared me, at least not adequately, for the special hell that is pubescent girls.
My house is a hotbed of hormones lately. I’m buying feminine hygiene products in bulk. I’m screaming at people to take showers. I’m battling through emotional breakdowns every other day (usually my own). I’m perpetually lecturing a la Mike Brady on topics of etiquette and manners. I’m sniffing armpits to verify everyone is wearing deodorant.
I’ll repeat that in case you didn’t catch it: I’M SNIFFING ARMPITS.
It’s part of the routine now.
Why am I sniffing armpits, you ask? Because if I don’t do it, they don’t wear it. And I become the mom of the stinky kids. I don’t want to be the mom of the stinky kids.
So I sniff the armpits.
I’m going to go curl up on the couch and cry now. Someone bring me chocolates and tell me I’m pretty.
Seriously, I can’t keep this thing updated to save myself.
And I’m at work right now, so this has to be short, sweet, and to the point. The Hipster and I have decided to make the leap into exclusivity. He’s fucking awesome.
That is all.
But I promise to write more later! Really. I mean it.
I have a date tonight. I’ve been talking to this guy for two weeks. I’ve cyber stalked him. I’ve done all the background checking I can do without running into serious cash costs. He seems legit. And awesome.
He’s all geeky-nerdy-dorky-dweebish like me, but with a slight hipster bent. This is the most excited I’ve been for a date in YEARS.
I have four hours to go and my stomach is trying to eat itself to escape the heart-racing frustration of my anxiety versus new things. The logical, rational part of my brain says, “RUN AWAY. GO NOW, BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE. SAVE YOURSELF, MORON.” But the hippie-dippy, sappy, hopeless romantic in me teams up with my heart – who is battle hardened, brutish, and carries a spiked club – and they pummel the shit out of Logic and Reason until they retreat back to their little cave of introverted loneliness to lick their wounds and hope that – just once – the brute squad is right about someone.