dried cilantro leaves

I’m not going to give you tips or tricks or printables or checklists or actionable items list or strategies for your kids screen time or instant pot recipes. Hard nope. I’m not your gal for that.

I’m going to tell you that when I eat standing up in the kitchen, I prolly shouldn’t be eating that. I’ll tell you that this year, at age 40, I’ve finally worn make up regularly. Kinda. I’ll tell you that I didn’t go to prom. I never lived in a dorm. I’ve been in 1 wedding, my own. I didn’t shave my arm pits or legs for many years. I will tell you that you should definitely know how to drive a stick shift. I’ll tell you that I’ve never owned a duvet. I’ll share my journey as a recovering black thumb. I’m here to tell you that I don’t give a shit what my kids wear. I’ll tell you that I don’t understand fads. I’ll share that I feel like a fraud at nail salons. I’m here to tell you that I never pluck my brows and barely cut my toe nails. I will admit that I am a q- tip fanatic. I’ll show you my shittay tattoo from 20 years ago that now looks like Spongebob. I’m here for real talk.

Tell me about your hemorrhoids. Tell me that your kid can be an asshole sometimes. Share with me that holidays make you feel overwhelmed and you’d rather dust then attend one more classroom party. Tell me you never dust. Tell me that your fridge is covered in fingerprints and you stopped caring about fingerprints on stainless years ago. Tell me your produce drawers also have a corner of dried cilantro leaves. Tell me that you lingered on the toilet when your kids were babies, just to get some Facebook scroll time. Show me your scarring from your septum piercing. Tell me you sometimes wish your husband traveled for work. I’m here for listening.