The way I figure it, something is brewing about to being and she blows in from the east and shows up on my doorstep.
“Are you here to help me make peace with my family and encourage me to do chores?” I ask.
“Seriously, don’t you think you’re a little old for that ?” She comes in, takes a hard look at my closets and sighs. “Maybe a little tidying up. Have you read Marie Kondo? She’s great. No matter. I’ll just enchant the cat and send some local dancing tradesmen down to IKEA. I’m sure they can sort it out for you.”
And I say, “Shouldn’t I do it myself so I can learn a lesson?”
“Sister, you’re an adult woman. You work hard. Time is at a premium. And I’m sure you’ve read some “Real Simple” about how organization is some zen bullshit, but come on. It’s just a scam to get you to buy more shit you don’t need from the Container Store.
“Women have for too long suffered under the assumption that we’re supposed to be not only tidy up the nursery without complaint, but perform domesticity in a way that absolves the men in our lives of regular household and emotional labor. So you end up with men who are irregularly employed, emotionally unavailable and trying to “find their authentic selves” or whatever while one-man banding or sidewalk chalking or g@#$%&m chimney sweeping or blustering around like giant mustachioed babies in banker suits. And then they turn around and think that ten minutes of kite flying or the occasional empty compliment (delivered in an insultingly terrible Cockney accent, I might add) makes up for their shambling awfulness literally every other moment of time. Do I sound bitter? I apologize. It’s been a shit century for me.”
I smile. “If it makes you feel any better, I download Tinder once a month. Set it up. Scroll through and then delete it from my phone thirty seconds late in a state of hopeless rage and self-loathing.”
“Tinder is the actual devil.” She takes off her hat and pats her practically perfect updo. “So you want a lesson? Here goes: The planet is in crisis. We’re surrounded by actual fascists. You’re probably never going to be able to retire. Idris Elba is never going to be your boyfriend. A spoonful of sugar might give you diabetes. Life is suffering. We all die alone. Yadda yadda yadda. You might as well live a little. I thought we might just go out and bitch about the number of people that act like it’s an actual tragedy that we don’t have husbands or children of our own–like I don’t have enough bad fathers and terrible, psychologically damaged, spoiled little shits to deal with in my @#$%ing day job. I mean, seriously. It’s negroni night at the penguin bar. The former Mrs Banks is buying. She’s a lot of fun post-divorce and you’ll adore her new girlfriend.” She opens her bag. “Now then, dresses! I’m thinking tawdry, with lots of feathers and sequins and tulle and then, like, totally comfortable, sensible shoes.”
“I don’t know how to thank you, Ms Poppins.”
“My friends call me Mary. And you, friend, can top off my travel tea mug with a slug of whiskey. Later on, it’d be great if you’d keep me from drunk texting Captain Hook again. He’s so pathetic. And I hate waking up on that gross boat the next morning. Truly foul.”
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