It's not me, it's you.

 

I try to avoid writing in the heat of the moment because my emotions can’t be trusted. One minute I’m ready to push someone off a building and the next I’m going, “I’m sorry baby, I didn’t mean it…”

Hence the reason I haven’t posted in almost four months.

But anyway, here’s a topic that I’m pretty sure every person with a vagina will chime in on: men are from Mars (or maybe a different galaxy) and women are from Venus.

Which sometimes works out well, because otherwise we’d have nothing to talk about at happy hour.

However, while I appreciate manly muscles and the living in the moment thing that boys seem to have perfected (can you believe that guy ate six Saltines in ONE MINUTE?!) they typically suck at communicating. And then they deflect this flaw by saying things like, “Do we have to talk about everything?“

Um, yeah. TEAM PLAYER.

It’s like they’d rather contract a deadly hantavirus than have a three-minute conversation to fix, or at least smooth, a conflict.

Let’s use my life, for example.

Not a word has been spoken between my stepson and I about our little run-in from August. Which is how the boys in my house would like to leave it. I, on the other hand, would like to have a little pow-wow over some video games and pizza so I can move the heck on from stepmom outsider hell.

Since that is most likely a pipe dream, I’m trying to channel this inner anger and resentment into workout classes. I’m thinking if I have to live with a big white elephant in the room, I’d rather do it with a size 8 ass.

So anyway, it’s not me…