They’re not earth-shattering, but here they are, in no particular order:
- How long will my fingernails continue to smell like spicy mustard, an entirely unjust punishment for being generous enough to make my husband’s lunch for tomorrow?
- How the hell do I stop getting notifications and updates literally every fifteen minutes about a friend’s Pampered Chef party? Is there some magic spell I can utter to impress upon the world’s mind that I would prefer to die in a ball of flames than attend one of these sponsored parties?
- As a “woman of a certain age,” how long can I continue to pull off the long-hair look? (In truth I answered that one for myself this morning: As long as I damn well feel like it. Screw you, societal standards.)
- Is it possible to make it all the way through election day without either throttling half of the population of the U.S. or falling into a deep, deep depression?
- How did minute bits of PVC pipe from the weekend kitchen plumbing project make their way upstairs to our freshly vacuumed bedroom rug? And will I put up with them all week or will I succumb to the dreaded mid-week vacuuming session?
- How many days in a row has it been John Ritter’s birthday? My FB feed has been announcing it daily for some time now. And isn’t he dead, anyway?
If you have answers to any or all of the above, please send them in on a self-addressed, stamped postcard to your nearest disgruntled, middle-aged mom.