By virtue of our vag, women are born into a life of servitude. Clean the latrine Cinderella. Febreze ‘til you wheeze Cinderella. This suzy homemaker is officially lowering the bar. As of now, if you drop by unexpectedly, pop a Reactine and wear dark socks.
What the fork’s for dinner? Every. Single. Day. Mutha Hubba’s cupboards are bone-ass bare, forcing a girl to be creative with quinoa and cocktail sauce. The next time I pick up groceries, I’ll buy more cheese for my whine.
You gotta know when to hold ‘em – know ‘how’ to fold ‘em – know when to walk away – know when to run. Fitted sheets are kneaded into a ball and stuffed neatly in the back of my linen closet. Who’s gonna know?
Housework is like toilet paper. You’re either on a roll or dealing with shit. We’ve reached the age where good enough is the new gold standard, however, these ongoing hardships are grueling for the Sangria Sisters:
🔹 Cutting soft brie into even slices
🔹 Opening a bottle of wine after the cork cracks
🔹 Finding the matching lid for a tupperware container
🔹 Unpacking a suitcase
🔹 Blow drying thick hair
🔹 Returning phone calls
🔹 Cleaning my glasses
🔹 Filling the car with gas
🔹 Feeding the dust bunnies
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