Humbug.

Hey Kids,

I know it's been quite a while since I've updated but what can I say? Boredom sure has kept me catatonic busy.

So what have I been up to? I'll give you my generic answer first: "Oh I've been great! Keeping busy with freelance writing and training to become a trainer! I KNOW! IT'S GREAT!!!!"

Now the real answer: It's been better--but not great. I have been doing some freelance writing, but though it keeps me busy one or two days a week, it does nothing to ease the fear that I will never achieve the professional success that I'd long dreamed of. You know? the type of success that isn't measured in money alone but in fulfillment. A freedom to buy the shoes I want, book the trip I'd longed for or just stare at my increasing balance all while being exhausted from the job I love so much.

So I've been gearing up for grad school. Why? Why not. Nothing better to do. Plus it may give my existence some meaning. The training part? Also true. You see I don't ever want to not have something to fall back on again. Really I don't. Plus physical activity has been a great stress reliever, though apparently not a sufficient one.

All this time, I'd neglected my own health it seems. My flo hasn't been flowing, and my libido well has been running, er, dry. So I did what any empowered 21st century gal would, I called my vaginacologist. Ready for an easy, honest conversation about any and all sexual details, I was unprepared for the physical exam. Ever see that SATC episode where Charlotte's vagina is depressed? Well mine is stressed. As in "I have a tight knot in my back, OUCH it hurts when you touch it!" type of stressed. My husband is NOT amused.

Lady Doctor: "June, are you under a lot of stress"?"

June: "Does Goldman Sachs write bonus checks?"

LD "I see. It's worse than I thought."

J: "Hmmph."

LD: "Do you anticipate the stress levels in your life going down?"

J: "Hold on a sec doc while I page Ben Bernanke and ask."

LD: "You may need to try other ways to alleviate the stress in your life: acupuncture, yoga, massage..."

J: "Lemme tell you something about yoga... "

LD: "Your nerves have become crossed and you may need to reactivate the wiring between your brain and your vagina."

J: "Do you mean 'crossed' the way the British do or are you referring to 'crossed' in the Biblical sense?"

LD: "I'd also like you to experiment with using tampons everyday, and with gradually increasing the size of your vibrator--all while using ample lubrication of course."

J: Crickets.

So while the country--nay, the world-- is hoping for another bailout, I'll be working on my very own stimulus package.

Only me folks, only me.

June

You Shut Your Facebook When You're Talking to Me

uck this.

Thanks to the ridiculous nature of "marketing" these days, no one is safe from the all-encompassing, privacy-shattering, big brother that's simply known as "social networking."

Let me start off by saying I HATE twitter, and I HATE Facebook. MySpace is--thankfully--dying on its own and does not need my help.

Don't let the fact that I fraternize with the enemy fool you, I am a silent Web assassin that would terminate them both if given the chance, but alas, I have resorted to the Matrix way of conquering my foe: by infiltrating their ranks.

What drives me up a wall is that social media has now become a make-it or break-it aspect of any interview. Oh you can cure cancer? Great! But can you effectively tweet about it to the masses? No? Sorry, YOU LOSE.

What started off innocently as a way to share pictures and musings has now become the one (and in some ways, the only) method of showing the world who you are. Don't have 700 friends? You must be a recluse. No pictures of you stumbling home drunk? You must have no social life and we can't have that because we're looking for a team player.

I'd ask you not get me started on Twitter but I already am. Who the fuck needs to know what you're doing or thinking that often? Latest Twitter Feed: June is about to refrain from smacking someone: //tinyURL/ShootMe.

My latest nightmare seems less far-fetched.

Coming soon to a drive-through near you: twitter you order, then update your Facebook status to simultaneously reflect your gluttony! Invite your friends to follow by utilizing our paid ads! We haven't figured out how to make money yet but don't tell anyone!

The only question is, can I communicate three whoppers, twelve large pizzas and a family size bucket (with all the sides) in 140 characters or less? I have a feeling that very soon, some celebrity trainer is going to invent the twitter diet. "I tell all my clients, if they can't list all they're eating in 140 characters or less, they have no business consuming that. Nicole, Jennifer and Kate love my plan."

Bracing myself for more obnoxious interviews (and the inevitable twitter diet in next week's US weekly),

June

Chick View

I've coined a new phrase: Chick View. Follow my faulty logic along, will you?

Any movie starring women = Chick Flick

Any book that merely mentions romantic entanglements = Chick Lit

All interviews I've been on = Chick View

What do these things have in common? Something feminine, something new, a flight of fantasy and lots of blue--as in navy pantsuits to wear for interviews.

It always starts out so promisingly, as do most romantic comedies: an email response, a flirtatious phone call, and invitation to meet.

A girl's mind immediately starts to race, picking out the dress (or skirt and shirt), flowers (or briefcase/professional-looking bag), shoes (for confident strutting), the size of the ring (salary, cash bonus and 401k offer), and the honeymoon (do they or don't they offer health care coverage?)

Will you take this job for better or worse?

Admit it, who reading this hasn't pictured that hot Ivy-League grad who just bought you a drink in a tuxedo? I often commit similar fantasy crimes when I picture the director of Human Resources asking me for a salary range. It goes something like this:

"What sort of compensation were you looking for?"

"F--"

"Five hundred thousand to start? Great! That's just what we were about to offer you."

"When would you like me to start?"

"Oh, please take your time. Go home and call us when you're ready, but in the meantime, let me take your direct deposit information to deliver your first paycheck right this second right now."

"Thank you?"

"No June, THANK YOU. Now go home and enjoy that extended money-worry-free vacation you deserve."

Sigh.

A girl can dream, can't she?

Don't answer that.

Ridiculously yours,

June

Hemptons Hell

It's official, I've now been to the The Hamptons and let me tell you: it's exactly like that hellish episode of Sex and the City where Charlotte gets crabs.

My mother-in-law wanted to have all us "kids" gathered for shits and giggles at a "fabulous summer rental I found online!"

So let's explore some myths and realities shall we? Let's call this a game of Puff Daddy vs. in-law reality. (Yes, I am aware that it's Diddy, but can you blame a girl for clinging to a pre-recession, golden-age, white-party past???)

Myth: "It's such a beautiful drive!"

Reality: 176 hours in the car will suck the beauty out of anything.

Myth: "The cleaning crew just left."

Reality: Cobwebs as dated as Fendi Baguettes, bugs the size of New York City rats and a kitchen floor so dirty, my white page jeans are still black on the bottom--after two clorox intensive washes.

Myth: "Everyone should pitch in and make dinner one night."

Reality: A refrigerator so inept at keeping things cool and dry that my crisp greens emerged soaked. Oh and that pasta didn't have sauce when it went in there. Really the fridge should be rechristened THE LAGOON.

Myth: "There's a gorgeous ocean breeze."

Reality: It was so fucking hot and humid I briefly considered hiding in THE LAGOON.

Myth: "There are three full baths in the house."

Reality: The only shower worth considering was the sun shower. If you know me, you know I don't do anything outside.

Myth: "Everyone here is so relaxed and the kids are having a great time."

Reality: The children, including the baby, were allowed to eat things off the aforementioned floor, had dirt under their nails that was never washed off, and felt the need to stick their grimy fingers into every possible bag of chips, bowl of snacks and item of food.

Oh and one last anecdote I must share: While eating on the patio, my brother-in-law was to busy focusing on eating his steamed shellfish ("my favorite food everrrrr") to notice that his naked, filthy toddler was crawling toward a chicken bone that had been there for at least two days (that I could count), and which was covered in swarming flies.

His reaction? "Oh," reaching over for more grub before exclaiming: "That's not a good idea."

I couldn't have said it better myself.

June

Big My Secret

On a muggy, disgusting, rainy Sunday, we thought seeing a movie was too predictable. A jaunt to the mall on Father's Day it is!

We made a deal, the hubby and I, a quick dash to Victoria's Secret for me (trust that I could hold the world record when it comes to shopping--NOBODY is quicker), before a never-ending visit to the electronics store for him.

Enter we did, amid all the semi-annual bla bla signs featuring Heidi and Co. in their skivvies. I came upon the style I was looking for before an annoying woman chased me down and asked what size I needed. "34D," I informed her*. Without skipping a beat she told me they were out of that size, but "why don't you try a 36C? You know they're sister sizes," as she pulled up the offending garment.

The hubby, in an iPhone stupor, simply snickered, as if knowing what I was about to say next.

"Let me ask you something," I said as I turned to Nostradamus, "what size shoe do you wear?"

"7.5 " was her reply.

"Narrow or Wide?"

"Narrow."

"So you wouldn't be a 7 wide, now would you?"

Long pause. "I guess not."

"I didn't think so."

Shifting gears, she tried to steer me toward a different style. "Well I do have your size in this pushup demi." The flimsy, cushiony, lacy mess had no relation whatsoever to the everyday (ok, purposely unsexy) garment I had been seeking. "A pushup kinda defeats the purpose with these bad boys, don't you think?" I could hear her brain freeze, in a Microsoft Vista fashion.

Someone needs to explain the following: Do most women go to work in push-me-up-so-high-I-spill-over boulder holders? I long ago noticed that European lingerie lines focus on pretty fabrics and sexy styles without all the muss and fuss that VS seems to be obsessed with: Bigger! Rounder! Higher! Is this an American thing? Because let me tell you, yes La Perla is pricey, but whether you're A or C cup, they love you just the same.

As we walked out, I resigned myself to the fact that I would leave the mall empty boobed handed. But those VS models wearing wings? They got nothing on my angel. He got me a shiny new toy today. Why? Just 'cause.

Yep, a great (sugar) daddy he will be.

Mrs. Cleavege Cleaver,

June

*Cleavage size has been changed to protect the innocent.

The Housewife Chronicles

W (no relation to Georgie) is one of my best friends. Married young, she is having baby "issues," i.e. her husband is as excited about the prospect as you or I about cleaning the toilet bowl.

I am also having issues with my own hubby, who views the prospect of procreating with a mixture of wonder and horror: the same expression one has while watching a volcanic eruption--"how beautiful from a distance, but goddamn it I'm so glad I'm nowhere near that." That type of thing.

So W's husband asked her to go off the pill, which was promising. But then a funny thing happened on the way to the baby forum: he stopped sleeping with her. Now you could blame that on stress, anxiety, the normal ebb and flow of married sex-life or, a silent protest against going through with baby-making deed. Well, that and the fact that he's gained 30 pounds to his already rotund frame throughout the course of their marriage. I believe the term is "mobility issues."

Why is this? I thought it was typically men who insisted on kids, with little understanding for the sacrifices (professional and personal) that most women make when carrying a baby for 40 weeks (that's TEN months, not nine).

It's official: men are the new women.

This far away from buying a pack and lighting up,

June

Taking it Off

Anyone who knows me knows that my nails are always done. I will go without food and clean clothes to visit the nail salon where they know my name (yes, nail spas are my Cheers, though I'm still working on the theme song).

While getting a polish change a few weeks ago, my beloved Rosie--whose disposition matches her name--noticed that my nails were patchy and slightly, shudder, yellow. "It's because you always have polish on," she said. Now in the midst of a full-blown existential crisis--"without my fancy polish what am I?!"--I filed this information away for another time, outwardly remaining calm while quietly panic-strucken.

A few weeks went by; as I went in yesterday and signed in for a mani/pedi service, it was as much of a shock to me as to Rosie when she asked me to pick out my color, only to hear my reply: "no color today."

This must sound silly to the majority of you who:

a. get your nails done only once in a while

b. have enough in your life to keep you otherwise busy and fulfilled.

But for little ol' June, this is a tectonic shift on a scale unseen since I dusted off my flat iron and attempted to do my own hair--to no avail. Now I just walk around with a vintage scarf and big earrings to detract from "the hair."

So how does it feel? Free, liberating, and gosh-darn-it, I'd forgotten just how cute my toes were, unencumbered by bright red polish. Who knows? This may force me to stop trying to make everything else in my life seem "right" and just accept the pretty within. Or not.

Always striving for better,

June

(S)Talk to Me

My therapist is stalking me. 

Allow me to provide some background: I last saw Dr. E two years ago, after weekly visits that lasted a couple of years. She was sweet, great at what she does and very warm, which is apparently an anomaly when it comes to the profession; detached is a word I hear often from my fellows in treatment. 

So what went wrong? She got too friendly. Our first minute or so of exchanging polite hellos and discussing weather/news/whatever turned into Dr. E spending the first fifteen minutes of our sessions (you know? the same sessions I was paying top dollar for) asking me where to get the sweater I had on that she just had to have. Describing a run that helped ease my tension (ok, anger) prompted her to veer off course in the excited manner of an annoying friend, years your junior, in high school: how far do you run? what gym do you go to? do you stretch after?! Last time I checked I wasn't a personal trainer. 

Dr. E also had the unsettling habit of inadvertently sharing way too much information about her patients with me (example: "Hi June, sorry I kept you waiting but my 5 o'clock--the British lady who moved here for her husband--was very deeply discussing her childhood parent trauma issues."). All I could think was, WHAT IN HELL'S NAME DOES SHE SAY ABOUT ME?!

The last straw came when I described finally reorganizing my closet after ignoring the messy pile for months. She practically jumped out of her leather seat and asked me how I'd found the motivation because she just couldn't get around to it. No doubt she'd been comparing my method with her other patients, I mean one can only assume. 

Big Mama June (my mother) taught me never to trust someone who always told you other people's business. After all why would he/she treat your secrets any differently? 

My frustration got the better of me. Feeling the need to end yet another no-longer-comfortable relationship (a subject we had often discussed, in fact) I just told her I felt "healed," and "ready to lay off therapy for a while." Coward? I've been called worse things--many. Just ask those friends I no longer keep.

Fast forward to our familiar theme, this economy. It hasn't been so good to Dr. E. She, like all of us, has been losing business. She called to ask me how I was doing, and when informed of my newfound ongoing leisurely state, decided it was "imperative" that I come back in for a session--or five--to work on my "growing frustration." 

Dr. E called me three times in the past week.

Is business just slowing down? Or did others find themselves in my dire situation: playing friend to someone whose feelings we should not have to worry about?

Too bad I don't have a shrink to work through these feelings with.

Feeling like Betty Draper in therapy,

June

Good Morning, Interrupted

I was making myself a second pot of coffee (mommy needs her drugs in the morning), watching "The View," minding my own pajama-wearing, still-haven't-brushed-my-teeth business when...

the doorbell rang.

It was the repair man, unannounced, expecting to come in and perform whatever repairs have been in dire need of attention for weeks, and now this slob (you have no idea how much of understatement that is) wanted to interrupt one of my favorite activities: outwardly making of fun of the ladies, while secretly wondering when my mother and I turned into the same demographic. 

Anyway, I opened the door half way and told him to C-A-L-L N-E-X-T T-I-M-E, before slamming the door shut and getting back to the safe familiar womb that is my couch. 

Having now grown frustrated with the morning's interruption, I decided to take it out on share with my husband, who would no doubt not give a flying fuck love to hear about it. 

Unlike my boring self, he gets up and goes to work everyday, albeit, to a job he deplores, but more on that some other time. Naturally, it goes to voice mail, at which point I proceed to leave a long, rambling message in which I stressed "how busy I am", "it's not like I didn't have plans this morning" and "I mean, does he just think I just sit around ALL DAY?"

As I hung up, pondering how patient he will, no doubt, be about my predicament, I received a text message from my beloved that read one line: "Pooping. Call you right back."

For all of you out there already living with your significant other and wondering how marriage changes things? That's how marriage changes things. 

Mourning the death of romance,

June

P.S. love you honey, poop and all. 

Reliving My Youth...Already?!

(Culprit: the actual African print.)

So I tick off an age box between the numbers 30 and 40. This should not mean that I'm now relegated to housewife uniforms that fall under the following categories:

☒Rich, chubby housewife who disguises the fact that she never got back to her (eating disorder-induced) pre-baby weight with any and every designer garment/bag/shoe--she doesn't need to have style, she can buy Fashion!

☒Soccer mom jeans wearer.

☑Someone who wears sweatpants (ok, pajamas) everywhere with a constant air of "Oh I'm just on my way to the gym..."

In an attempt to shake things up, I put on my favorite bell-bottom-y summer jeans (70s vibe--something Nicole Ritchie would wear), bright T-shirt, and layered gold necklaces, all while sporting the messiest, frizziest hair you've ever seen (young, cool people don't actually bother with their hair do they?)

Feeling very hip (pun intended) indeed, I made my way to American Apparel, or as it's better known, where you can find every ugly trendy item you missed the first time around. Now I'm a courageous girl when it comes to fashion, but I do draw the line at African-print harem pants (hello? American Apparel? MC Hammer called. Even he doesn't want that look back). 

The final straw was when a lovely--if dim--salesgirl asked if I'd seen their newest dress. She then lead me to the vicinity of tight nylon covered in paint splatter that can be best described as burnt-sienna-no-wait-it's really-burnt-neon. Dimwit mistook my gasp of repulsion for pleasure and said, "I know! Isn't it amazing? SO vintage," without an ounce of irony. 

Ladies and gentleman, I never thought I'd live to see the day when something I wore long and hard came back to haunt me in my (is it twilight yet?) "grown-up" years. 

Join me next week as I relive the Vamp nail polish craze and watch "old movies" like "Trainspotting" and "Reality Bites". 

For the record: Ben Stiller has salt in his pepper, Winona Ryder plays Spock's mom in the new Star Trek and Ethan Hawke has wrinkles. All over his face.  

As Mr. Pointy Ears would say, this is all very illogical.

June

Carbs Equal Love

After a long--but surprisingly--calm fight with the hubby I've come to the following conclusions:

1. Cheesy marriage therapists are right when they say "communicate," "tell him/her how that makes you feel," and when all else fails "give head." Ok that last one wasn't on the list.

2. Our mothers were on to something when they told us to never go to bed angry--or hold on to anger that's been festering since that horrible trip with his family over Christmas.

3. Big, ugly, screaming matches followed by crazy make-up sex are flights of cinematic fancy. Mean fights are exhausting and accomplish little. Now I just need to find a movie with a dramatic-yet-civilized marital fight scene.

4. Mornings bring clarity. (See also: a great time to act like nothing happened and sheepishly hug your spouse in apology for calling his mother a ****).

5. It's always a good idea to be on speaking terms with your spouse on Sunday morning, as there is nothing good to watch on TV.

For some reason, I thought today was a good day to bake bread for the first time. Before you roll your eyes at the idea of me now posting recipes, rest assured I won't. I'm no chef, but I do have good taste and can easily steer you to my favorite chef on the Web. For all you food pretenders out there? Check out East Village Kitchen, bow your head in embarrassment, and don't you ever post another cupcake recipe again.

Covered in flour,

June

Yogasm? Me Thinks Not

I made the ludicrous decision to get out of bed early this morning and attend a hot yoga class (anything before 11 on a weekend is pointless. What? I don't have kids yet. Jealous? I thought so).

So first off...what is up with the notion of sharing not just space, but BREATHING space with dirty hippies? I, of the Lulu Lemon persuasion (matching top to band on pants, yeah, you know it), perfectly painted toes (economy you can bring me down, but my toes shall go on goddamnit) and death glare pointed toward anyone who talks to me before my morning coffee, was not amused by my surroundings. Nor by the fact that the instructor asked me to "fasten my spiritual seatbelt."

Dirty, sweaty floorboards and a filthy little fucker with bacne, fuzz in his armpit hair (and not just there for all I know. Shudder) along with a box of Kleenex that he propped right up my in my personal space (I used a purple block to shove it on to his mat "by mistake"). Why the need for tissues you may ask? Could our shower-challenged yogi not bring a towel with him to wipe off the sweat? Well it seemed that someone had a fever this morning, or so I gathered from the beet-red color his neck and face was turning, not to mention the disgusting sound of sucking in his own snot that he made every minute on the minute of our 90 minute class.

One is meant to focus in such classes. Think happy thoughts and breathe in and out. Meanwhile I spent an hour and a half repeating one word over and over: Swineflu. Swineflu. Swineflu. Swineflu. Swineflu. Swineflu. Swineflu. Swineflu.

It's over now. I've had my 10 cups of coffee and Clorox bath and feel like myself again. Cranky and averse to any enlightenment whatsoever.

Good morning everyone.

A very clean,

June

Housewife No More.

This economy has done a lot of things to a lot of people. For some couples, it's highlighted the bonds that held us together in the first place. For others, the glare of responsibility and sacrifice has been a bitter pill to swallow. 

A good friend of mine is getting a divorce. I'm heartbroken, and I don't know why. My parents are still together, but now I think I know a little of what my husband must have felt when his parents parted ways. 

It had been tough on her even before the economy hit the shits. Her role as a reluctant housewife (while her husband got up and went to work everyday) only emphasized her life stalled in neutral. But--you know where I'm going with this-- as her career started to pick up speed, he grew needy and impatient. Her new-found confidence and happiness only highlighted how badly his career was going. But that doesn't explain the suddenness of her decision. It went from zero to sixty (or sixty to zero, really) in a split second.

I'm mad at her; she sounded so nonchalant about it. Like she was switching her favorite vodka brand for another, not as if she was about to permanently damage a man when he needed her; after he'd been there for her through so much. 

As we approach another anniversary, my husband and I stare into each other's eyes with a lot of love, a little fear and a lot of longing. We're longing for this to work, we're screaming at each other silently: MAKE THIS WORK. 

She's leaving, literally and figuratively, far away. I'm scared. If I was wrong about this, what else was I wrong about? 

She's a reluctant housewife no longer. 

Love and sadness,

June

Bow Chiqa Bow Bow

I'm a sucker for advertising. If it's really good I tend to laugh, if it's really bad (faux-inspirational is my new favorite) I laugh harder still.

So apparently Microsoft is pushing this new search engine they're calling Bing.com. The gimmick is, it sorts through the bullcrap for you. (Hmm. What if I like options?) .

Let me cut to the chase, I searched for "reluctant housewives" on Bing to see if it did indeed cut through the crap and lead the masses to salvation--this blog's home page--and was rewarded with literary porn results. Bow chiqa bow bow indeed. 

Who knew that reluctant housewife was code for cheesy homemade porn? I mean anyone who's married for more than five minutes knows you stop having sex altogether. Bing should be renamed delusional.com: the search engine named-after-Chandler-from-"Friends"  that couldn't. 

I'll leave you with the top reasons why porn is bad, according to porn-free.org:

"1. Looking at porn at work could damage the viewer's reputation, decrease his or her  productivity and lead to job loss.

2. Looking at porn can damage the viewer's current or future marriage sex life. 

3. Looking at porn can lead a person into masturbation addiction.

4. Looking at porn brings serious spiritual consequences.

5. Pornography addiction can lead to debt.

6. It opens the doorway to spiritual oppression and confusion in the viewer's life.  The power behind pornography is inherently evil.  It seeks to control and dominate the viewer's life, while allowing other forms of evil to gain influence in that person.  Once a person starts looking at the porn, their eyes become the gateway for the evil power to enter them.  As it gains influence, the evil can numb the viewer's ability discern right and wrong.  As traditional moral values are blurred, confusion sets in.  

7. Overall, porn affects every viewer negatively, regardless of religious belief, creed, gender or age."

Number 6 is pretty accurate. Confusion has set in.

Still laughing,

June

Birth of the Cool

(Photo: Hulton Archive)

Let's journey back to a time before Carrie Bradshaw. 

Before NYC was the background of every chick-flick that painted the city as this magical place where everyone was safe, blonde and could miraculously find that rent-controlled pad. Or as to paraphrase any episode of "Dallas," "When women were women, and men wore Stetsons."

My ideal New York City is the one depicted in "Mad Men" (minus the whole racial tensions and gay-bashing thingie). So housewives, turn on some Henry Mancini, light an imaginary cigarette (I quit years ago) and take a walk down memory lane with this article about the birth of the cool. 

Oh, and just to be clear, I'm not Cuban nor a communist, I just think this is the funniest picture that feeds the myth that Fidel was irresistible. Style before substance people. Let's get with the program. 

Love,

June

For F***'s Sake

Now kids, don't get all excited about two postings in one day (I like to keep expectations of me where they belong. LOW). But I simply had to share my agitation about the following. 

Apparently, there's a plethora of similarly-titled blogs out there, and I make no pretense that mine came first/is better. But riddle me this, why in f***'s sake would your blog include the words "reluctant housewife" in it if you were, in fact, "proud", "love being a mom" and "wouldn't change it for the world"? I call bullshit!

JesusHF***ingChrist. Last time I checked the word reluctant is defined as: 1. unwilling; disinclined, 2. struggling in opposition. 

Listing endless cupcake and quiche recipes so happily sends the wrong message. And as for writing about your kids? Unless you're drafting the script for a new "In The Motherhood" Webisode (we're all still trying to block out the show's unfortunate foray into primetime TV. Shudder), I'll do without, thank you very much.

P.S. I typed the word reluctant wrong when searching for the definition. See?! I'm even reluctant about being reluctant. 

A little less love,

June

Maybe Baby?

Sometimes I wonder about women having babies. I recently caught "The Nanny Diaries" on TV (obviously I had nothing better to do) and started thinking about why we procreate. 

a. Because it's time. Translation: The in-laws won't stop bugging you about it.

b. Everyone else is doing it so why shouldn't I? Translation: Mrs. X didn't want to be left out.

c. Boredom. Translation: So much time, so little to do (my real theory about why our mothers had us).

d. You love the person you're with so much you want more of him/her.

I started out at d. but have slowly shifted to c. Next thing you know I'll be faking a pregnancy just so my friends can throw me a shower. 

Let's see how I feel tomorrow.

Love,

June