I am a hater. I tried to become a professional hater, but apparently no one is hiring for that position, and when your resume consists of education, being a stay-at-home-mom since the beginning of time, and skills include roller skating, hating, and general awesomosity, you are officially overqualified for everything and no one will want to pay you the astronomical salary you so richly deserve.
Now that my youngest is in kindergarten all day, I just stay at home, clean, cook, do laundry, go grocery shopping, exercise (you can’t see me, but I looked shiftily from left to right as I typed the word exercise. Also, I had to make my fingers type this because you know, lies) and be my beautiful self. But I also had to be a hater by myself. Not that much fun.
I want to invite other haters to join me in my hateration. (Why did I just get that squiggly red line? Well, Windows, hateration should be a word, and I will not replace it with alteration.) I have been wanting to extend this invitation for months. But I was scared to start writing about my hating for the public to see.
So, you ask–cause you better ask–why now? What made you want to share the hate, Vida? (Oh, by the way, I’m Vida.)
Introducing Wondergirl. Wondergirl is my middle child and only girl. She’s nine, and we only live on the same planet and breathe the same air because she allows us to. She don’t take no guff, no guff at all. Her self-esteem is unbelievably high, and I have no clue where she got that from.
Anyhoo, Wondergirl was arguing with my twelve year old son, The Destroyer (more on him later) and of course they are yelling and I am drinking wine and tuning it out. As is my husband. The Destroyer yells at Wondergirl, “Who do you think you are?”
Her response: “I am me and that’s good enough for EVERYONE!”
I clocked that mid Riesling sip. She was absolutely right. And that’s why I stopped being afraid, and I am now inviting you to join me. Come on, drink the haterade. It’s gonna be wicked.