This whole yoga and self-centering doesn't work when you've got a ranting man in the house. I am working so hard (at working hard) and doing everything I can to stay sane without vitamins or medication, and then there's him. A bubbling fountain of anger, resentment, and blame.
Apparently the fact that I work at home means that I am a housewife. Forgive me, but I doubt my clients would agree. Worse yet, I am apparently the worst housewife in the world. Oh well. It is not exactly what I aspired to when contemplating my life.
And no, that's not an insult to good housewives everywhere, who take their roles and responsibilities seriously and offer them up with pride. Ladies, I salute you, in my most ardently feminist manner.
It's just not me. And I am not a criminal because I forgot to get fat-free pudding.
There's no thank you for getting it right. But imperfection, oh, let's blast her struggling psyche.