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Confessions of a Chronically Irritated Housewife
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Housewife means sleeping in until 8 a.m! Let’s just get one thing straight: I’m tired. I’m over it. And if one more person says “you just need a little self-care,” I’m going to throw a shoe at them. I’m a mom of three, wife to a man whose spirit animal is “I’ll do it later,” and caretaker to a zoo of pets including a tortoise who eats better than I do. I live in a house powered entirely by chaos, noise, and passive-aggressive sighs. My day starts somewhere between 6 and 8 a.m. (and yes, 8 a.m. is sleeping in—don’t test me). I’m up cooking breakfast, packing a lunch, feeding pets, walking the dog, and then maybe—maybe—I get to sit down for thirty seconds before someone wakes up in a bad mood and starts a pre-dawn war over cereal. I like people... conceptually. I can be social. I can be friendly. But don’t mistake that for endless patience. I can match your energy, sure. But if your energy is rude, I’ll match that too—with interest and a receipt. And can we talk about the “you’re kind of...
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