I Have a F*cked Up Relationship with Wealth
I’m working on it, but damn if selling this home hasn’t pushed it into overdrive.
Hi friends, this is the weekly newsletter that’s paywalled after a couple paragraphs, but I don’t want to leave some subscribers with nothing to read. If you’re missing me, might I recommend a couple stories I wrote recently that I’m really proud of (aka I had a blast writing).
You may have already seen them, but I figured Sunday was as good a time as any to highlight past newsletters for those who may have missed them. Enjoy this one about breaking up with people for no discernible reason and this one from Thursday about the time my daughter got motion sickness on a plane and we both bore the consequences of that experience. Onward!
I thought this newsletter was going to be late, and honestly, even as I’m writing it, I’m almost certain it will be. Some shit is going down in my life that I’d rather not talk about. It makes me feel silly and weak, and I hate feeling silly and weak. Honestly, I had a million other (far sexier) topics in mind to focus on today but instead, I’m going to write about something that, to me, feels like drowning. I’m going to explain why such a small and insignificant incident sent my nervous system into overdrive, how a single text exchange about cleanliness prompted my heart to beat so fast I wondered if R. could see the palpitations with his naked eye.
But as with most of my stories, we need to go back a bit before we go forward. This time, I’ll only take you back a few days to a birthday party for a two-year-old boy. Bean was invited to her first pint-sized shindig to celebrate R.’s friends’ adorable son. After a lot of reading Good Housekeeping articles about the best birthday presents for toddlers, I asked R. to order an ice cream shop with play cones and flavors and a cash register and probably 20 other kid-friendly items.
He did, and instead of arriving a day ahead of the party, it was dropped on our front porch the morning of the party looking like it had spent the previous day doing coke at a rave before asking the USPS delivery driver to run it over with the mail truck three to seven times before drop kicking it onto our welcome mat. It wasn’t even in a shipping box! They took it out of the protective box, probably so that they could further destroy the exterior with the fervor of a lactose intolerant with an axe to grind.
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