When I first subscribed to your e-mail list, I thought it might help light a fire under my as…er, I mean Franny…
No, wait. I mean ASS. What are you, twelve years old? I am a grown woman. I do not have a Franny. I have a big, juicy, womanly ASS.
See, that’s why I’m writing. You and your 1950s Good Girl mentality make me want to burn my bra and swear like a sailor. When I read your saccharine Musings, I feel like hurling all over my laptop. The Testimonials of your brainwashed minions flood my inbox, filling my brain like the screeching of a thousand hysterical birds.
But it’s your cheerful reminders that really drive me insane. WHERE ARE YOUR SHOES? Where do you think my shoes are, crazy lady? By the door. I am not going to wear my goddamn shoes in the house. Don’t you realize I have enough vacuuming to do without tracking pine needles all over my living room? DRINK YOUR WATER! I am not going to set a fucking timer to remind me to drink water every 15 minutes, you obsessive-compulsive psychopath. A LOAD A DAY! You seriously think doing a single load of laundry each day is going to put a dent in the tower of dirty laundry that threatens to topple over and smother my husband in his sleep? You obviously don’t have young children.
I’m sure you’re thinking the obvious solution is for me to unsubscribe to your e-mail list. That’s exactly what my husband suggested when he caught me flipping off my computer screen with both hands, screaming, “Swish and swipe THIS, motherfucker!” But you know, I kind of like the way your e-mails get my blood boiling. It makes me feel alive. I think I love to hate you, FlyLady. And perhaps that’s not such a bad thing.
So pucker up, buttercup. Lay one on my couch-lying, messy house-living, bonbon-eating Franny.
FLYing in California,