About the Bitch

I'm a reluctant stay-at-home-er.

I left my amazing job of more than ten years because of one crazy, crazy woman. Now, I live here. Periodically, I get out into the real world, but it's usually a trip to the grocery or hardware store.

My child is a mouthy teenager, not a cherubic toddler. There will be no pictures of curly-headed, sweet-cheeked children cavorting in a sunny field wearing GAP khakis and drooling grins.

I don't like to cook or clean or organize. I do it, I don't like it.
There is no shabby chic, chippy paint or vintage farmhouse in this house.
There is dog hair.
Cat hair.
Girl hair.
Feathers.

What do I like?

Well, surly she may be, but I'm fairly fond of the kid.
The old man is pretty cool, too.
I really like my idiot dog.
I like not having to report to anyone every morning.

I like food.

I like music.

I like bitching. (Clearly)

And there you are.

Why am I doing this?

Because I can. And you're reading it.

Who am I?

I'm not fucking telling.

Why?

This: