Hello, Bitchfaces. Y’all. Envious ass hos in the back, what’s good with everyone tonight?
Right. Same here.
I was aimlessly scrolling earlier, and came upon a group of women completely up in arms about the attached text from an old home ec book. I’m old enough to have actually taken home ec, although I opted for shop instead. We built little wooden CO2 cars. It was fun. I kept all my fingers. Also fun.
To this day, I cannot sew a stitch. I mean, I can, but it looks like Frankenstein did it with a fucking 10 gauge, and it’s falling out as soon as you try to wear it, so. I’m an embarrassment to my family anyway, so you can just tack this shit onto the list, sis. I have zero desire to poke my fingertips eighteen thousand times to hem some pants. My dry cleaners does that. And it’s fairly inexpensive. I’m good.
Back to the lecture at hand. As y’all are aware, I’m Southern, been that way my whole life, don’t plan on changing it in the foreseeable future. A lot of the shit on this list, I will openly admit is some shit I have happening over here.
If you show up to the house, I’m probably cooking something, because you feed people you care about. Nobody is going to walk into my house looking messy, because I can’t fathom living like that. You’re not going to see me looking that way, either. Because that’s just fucking lazy.
I don’t subscribe to that arguing shit, ever. At all. Don’t even call my phone with it. You’re fucking with my peace, thus, you gotta go. You come to the house, I’ll grab you a coffee (it’s chocolate covered strawberry, currently), have a seat anywhere but Puffins recliner. She will be big fucking mad about it.
This is just shit that you do, at least in the house I was raised. I have had friends from almost every walk of life, and it’s been about the same anytime I go to their places. I am fairly certain I’m not living in a bubble.
I understand that the delivery is fucking piss poor. I don’t want to do it, simply because of the tone of the piece. Like, fuck you, he can feed his damned self now, and watch all these fucking kids. I’m going out.
If you simply show up at my house on a Tuesday in March, though, this is the shit that is happening anyway. It’s not something that needs to be requested, it’s just good manners, and home training. Are there really that many people who are not doing things in this fashion?
Have I been here in the South for too long without going on tour?
Hell, even in Detroit, my coworkers who invited me over were the same way. So, I don’t believe it to even be a geographical matter. Is it the new generation, whatever in the fuck they’re calling themselves now?
No, they’re the ones talking about baking bread (I mean, not really, they’re using a machine, that’s not the same) and wearing A line dresses thinking it makes them traditional. A handful of them, anyway. But, to be fair, those girls are not bright, not even a little bit, and watching their little vapid ass Ted talks about it made me feel dumber so I had to stop.
So, this is the part of the story that always made me question if I was really a feminist or not? I don’t find doing most of that list offensive. I find it to be good hostessing, and if you don’t know how, we can get you some classes, punkin, because otherwise you look like you were raised by wolves. Nobody wants that. Not even the wolves.
A lot of the old school feminists made me feel I was wrong for wanting to be a caretaker of people. For wanting a nice home, that always smells like one off the wall coffee or another, and vanilla in my kitchen, and my super clean floors. I didn’t claim to be a feminist for years largely due to this.
They made me feel like the movement didn’t want me if I was me. Because a lot of the things about me are considered too “domestic” or “submissive”. I don’t really believe I’m too much of either of those things, but some plaid-donned bitches back in the 2000’s thought so.
Well, lookie here, plaid swathed bitches. Look at who the fuck is over here with the big, red F on her chest now. And wipe those goddam Birkenstocks off before you step on my floor, you ill-mannered clod.
I am not outraged when women want to stay home and be a wife. I’m not outraged when they want to work and never marry. I’m not even mad if they’re career students, but you’re a dumb bitch taking all those loans. Literally you’ll die in debt, do the fucking math, sis. And philosophy is not a fucking major. Get your shit together, you look sloppy.
What I’m saying is I don’t fit the old mold, and you don’t have to either. It’s totally okay to be a kick ass dog mom (you can follow my example), or have some sticky faced kids if you can stand it, or whatever the fuck you want and still be a feminist. It’s not even a stretch anymore. No matter what some bitches in plaid with mullets said back then.
The only real requirement is pretty much the motto of my whole little show. I’m for women being better women for the sake of being better women. That’s it. Not better than you, sis, that’s your job. I’m a better me, because I needed to be. I want you to be a better you because it’s healthy to grow. That’s feminism today.
Sign up. I mean, we’re not sending you an 8x10 glossy or anything, but I’ll let you join my fan club if you’re super desperate for one. There’s always room in your life for a glossy print of The Queen.
Love-
Q
I don't have much except 🤮🤮🤮🤮🤮
That's actually not bad advice.. where they blow it is that it works either way.. and that's what so many guys forget.
It's great advice if you're reading it as "How to take care of each other"
Sauce, Goose = Sauce, Gander