I have always been a feminist and a geek. I was born that way. I once went on a strike because my Italian high school offered computer science only to boys. I also had a mad-unreturned crush on one of those boys. Since then, I have managed to keep up with technology and marry my adorable and smartypants husband, produce two constantly hungry children and keep up with my career. As a by-product my daily fights have exponentially multiplied.
I wake up at 5:45 am everyday to cook a healthy breakfast and make “delicious” lunch boxes for the kids, even if I am 98% positive they would prefer a bowl of Captain Crunch and chicken fingers for lunch. I drive – perennially late – husband to the train station while simultaneously checking my social accounts and making sure I’m trending, an almost impossible task since Potus and his circus have taken over Twitter.
I sign up for my Soul Cycle class, by the time I hit reserve I already know I will never make it on time, I lose my $35. Oh, yeah, fuck it….Barreclass is where it is at anyway.
I sit down at my computer to write and work, it takes me 20 minutes to close Roblox Studio, my son gaming account, another 45 minutes goes by because I get stuck on a phone call with one of the soccer age coordinators, followed by another phone call by the school math specialist. She calls to kindly explain what common core scores my kids are supposed to get, in order to be accepted in compacted math. I DON’T know what compacted math is but I fake it. I check again to see if I’m trending on twitter or on refinery29. Not yet. #ParisFashionWeek is what’s happening. No luck with that one.
I move on and I concentrate on the recipes for my clients. I need to pee. I sit down with-out looking and I realize – EWW – I have landed on what It feels like a sticky liquid mess. Boys will be boys. I clean. I shower. I go back to work and five minutes later I’m hungry.
The emails pile on. I am told I must attend an exceptionally relevant event in downtown NYC at the latest hip bakery to benefit equality also or mainly because all the food influencers will be present. Somehow I finagle my way in.
I bring my two adorable kids as a beard. They spot 47 kind of Pinterest looking like decorated cakes. They go wild and spend $200 on sweets and they also pile up on Ottolenghi’s clones of yellow cumin mini doughnuts. It’s for a good cause I don’t mind. I notice a cute bunny on the counter, I think it’s a prop. I realize I’m mistaken, it’s not a prop — he has his own blog. I’m told he is getting a book deal. I spot -FUCK- the kids feeding the cumin doughnuts to the blogger-author-bunny. God forbid, author-bunny gets a stomach bug.
I chat with a statuesque/thin/fabulous model, she tells me she loves cooking and eating really fatty food and that her blog has a GINORMOUS following. I look at her beautiful manicured hands, I glance at my dry cuticles and grill mark scars on my arm and for a second I want to cry. I don’t.
I make it back home. I realize I have to warm dinner up because the aupair tells me she is feeling tired and that also she is still not comfortable turning the stove on by herself, because the stove is different from the one she grew up with. She has been with us for 6 months.
I sit at the computer with – AH! – false hope I will finish my menus and recipes. I work for a solid 15 minutes before I become aware of the time.
I’m late to pick up my husband at the train station. I tell the aupair to make sure the peas don’t burn. I shove the kids in the back of our one week old car. It smells good, it’s clean and it’s promising me a long life of service. I get on the road it’s dark as hell. The car on the opposite lane swirls towards me, I manage to move on time but the two driver side mirrors collide and explode. I hit the swear jar one thousand times. Kids think it’s hilarious and start cashing in on the situation. Methuselah blond lady, takes 20 minutes to find insurance papers, yells at me, in my head I think: “go fuck yourself” but I keep politely smiling. We finally exchange numbers. I get to the train station late, husband is agitated and when he sees the exploded mirror he doesn’t respond well.
We get home, the peas are burned. The husband looks down at the carpet and notices mud tracks on the entrance carpet. Silently, with his coat still on, he starts vacuuming with a very loud Dust Buster, the one that, sadly we all know, doesn’t suck anything up, any longer. I make a mental note to hit Costco for a new one.
We have dinner, kids go wild, but they make me laugh. Husband seems to be in a better mood after a good meal. I think about going to a late yoga class – WHO THE FUCK AM I KIDDING – I need to be up till 2 am to finish my work and posting on socials.
I remember to make my daily call to our Senator.
Everyone is now in bed. The house is quiet. I pour a glass of my Home Made Ginger Ale – YUM! – I settle in front of the computer, I check my Instagram one more time , I start working. #RESIST