Dear Unrealistic Expectations,
Forgive me for being rude, but I do not recall inviting you here. I’m not typically a huge stickler for this sort of thing, and I try to be ready for unexpected guests with a nice cold Fresca and some salted pretzels, but this is one of those times when I think I need to set some limits, because how well you feel at home here is disturbing me just a little.
First, knock off buddying up to my ego. I know the ego seems large and robust, but it’s not. It’s the little kid on the playground and I would appreciate you not convincing it that it’s got some mystery mojo that gives it magical ass-kicking powers. My ego is notoriously susceptible to delusions of grandeur, and you convincing it that it’s bigger than it is only sets everyone up for a bashing of epic proportions. I’m talking Milton’s Paradise Lost here on the scale of things, and that typically results in my family eating cold cans of Pork and Beans for dinner for a week because I can’t be bothered to leave the floor of my closet.
Secondly, step a way from the cauldron in which you are brewing dissatisfaction. I can smell that stuff a mile off, and I can tell that you’re one eye-of-newt away from a pretty potent concoction. I’ve worked damned hard to get to a place where my life and my home are pretty darned good, and I am in no mood to get slipped a mickey that convinces me that everyone I’ve ever heard of, right down to Octomom and people who think subscriptions to TV guide are stellar Christmas gifts, has got it together better than I do.
Finally, leave my to-do list the hell alone. There’s plenty of stuff on there that actually needs to get done, like pay bills and stop the kids from bleeding. When you take your sharpie marker and add things to the list like “organize the toilet paper by ply and softness” or “make handmade mini-quilts for the neighbor’s anemic chihuahua,” I get distracted and then I get paralyzed and then nothing gets done other than me wandering up and down the hallway holding the list in my hand mumbling out-loud, “I don’t remember why I wanted to alphabetize the junk drawer…” I, personally, think that even remembering where my damned junk drawer is is an accomplishment some days.
In conclusion, while my good breeding prevents me from bodily throwing you out on your unreasonable arse, I ask you to leave. The holidays are coming, and in mere weeks I will be setting irrational standards for myself all on my own, thank you very much. I don’t need you here lying on my couch, sucking down my Pringles and insulting my TV choices. I happen to like reruns of “Roseanne.” They makes me feel better about myself.