Faking It

Hey Heifer,

You are so fucking fake!

Like, everything about you. Everything. Not plastic fake, but your core. Your very being. There is nothing about you that has or ever will be real. And you keep proving this daily.

The saddest part is that your children look up to you and this is how they see women represented: soulless, careless, pretentious, delusional, neglectful, and empty. Tragic. It’s ok, I’ll work harder to make them see the other side, the side you’re afraid of and have always run away from: strong, outspoken, fair, nurturing, confident, loving.

And you know what’s funny? You choose not to see the shit show that you are. This is your choice. You post things that embrace your #beautifulmess, but you don’t really. You look in the mirror and see the same #basicbitch that everyone else does. So you take a bunch of selfies and manipulate one or two with #allthefilters and, bet, stare at it over and over again, marveling at the make-believe version you created. Pretending that everyone else is also fucking blind and dumb.

I don’t need to hear the horror stories from your ex husband, or in-laws, or friends, or anyone else who knows you. I see it. I laugh at you. I cry for your children.

Your image is more important than anything anyone can ever give you, because of this you’ll always be alone. No wonder he left you.

And then you started dressing like (two of) me. That’s a real knee slapper! I guess you’ve seen too much of my uniform when I come pick up your kids. Your Anthropologie flower prints, sparkly sandals and neon strap (clearance) Coach bags turned into beat up motorcycle boots, black jeans and grey flowy tees? Hm. Oh, you’re a #rockerchick now? Oh, you’re covered in (shitty) tattoos now? Oh, you’re going to live shows now? Oh, you’re doing everything your ex husband told you he wanted and found in…me?

The thing is though, I didn’t have to try, nor have I ever done anything to impress anyone. The thing is that I don’t spend thousands of dollars on myself each month. Thing is that I don’t have to dye my hair every colour of the rainbow to stand out, or get decals on my nails to stand out, or wear completely inappropriate outfits to work just to get noticed by someone, anyone. I accept myself and choose to give rather than take. 

But what do I know, I’m just some dumb bitch who left her past life to be a mother to your kids and the friend and lover your ex husband had always wanted.

#breathelove

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Poor Forgetful Heifer

Hey Heifer,

Remember how you “forgot” that you had your kids on your weekend and then your “plans to be out of town fell through” and some “new plans have come up in town” and you thought it would be “best to keep to the plan since it’s already been communicated” to your kids? Yeah, I’m sure they’d be really bummed out if mummy surprised them with the original day they were looking forward to spending with you. Bravo. Really, exquisite work.

Here’s the deal, though: I can see what you’re “busy” with.

For starters, those exercise classes you’ve been broadcasting on your social media don’t work when you stuff your face with pizza and mac ‘n cheese (in bed) right after. Let’s face it, you hit your plateau around a year ago.

Didn’t you just paint your hobbit toes, like, two days ago in anticipation of a date? Oh, sorry, did you find out he had a girlfriend and had to cancel your trip because he’s another dude (who lives with his mother) rejecting you? Oops. Yeah, you should definitely go to the nail salon and spend more money on your broken feelings.

Ooooh, then you went on a #datenight at your ex husband’s former restaurant! That’s smart, considering you probably don’t want him to know that you’re frolicking around aimlessly instead of spending time with your fucking kids. It’s ok, I’ll be the mum they need.

OMG, and the next day you actually got up and went to…wait for it…THE SPA!? NO WAY! That never happens. You poor thing, I’m sure your fat ass got really overworkef by laying around on the couch and was in dire need of some #selfcare.

Then you got really adventurous, found a book store (first time in 37 years) and actually went in to browse the display. Wow. You’re so intelligent. I can’t even start to compete with you. Wait, and you brought home a vintage book with Buddha on the cover that “spoke to you” (and will simmer in a layer of filth and animal hair until you never pick it up)? Damn, girl, you ooze worldliness and zen.

Oh shit, you’ll never believe this: I just asked your kids and they said they hadn’t bathed or brushed their teeth once while in your care last week! Shocker, I know. But you! You did manage to take your beloved bathbomb-bath with all the #bathessentials last night. They must not be deserving of such royal treatments, those little bastards. It must be really difficult to rally and teach them proper hygiene. At our home it takes a whole “Whose turn is it to shower?” to make sure they’re clean. Can you even imagine how hard that is to ask every night?

And today! This is a good one. Today I got a text message from a girlfriend who follows one of your social media feeds for a daily pick-me-up, with a screen grab of you laying in bed with your #bae at 11 o’clock in the morning. Lucky dogs. (Literally, you call your your dog bae. This is totally normal.) But check it out: by 11am this morning your kids were fed twice, had brushed their teeth, played a board game and tidied up their room without looking at a single screen. All this while I also took care of an infant. Can you even imagine? But then, by 2pm today you took a another strenuous bath and got to forcefully crack open a case of wine from one of your many winery adventure with mummy (paid for by mummy). 

Your life is the hardest. Being a delusional princess is a huge responsibility and I really don’t know how you manage to juggle all your personal appointments while your children are minded by others.

#mustbedoingsomethingright

Mother of the Year

Hey Heifer,

We’ve known each other for some time now and I’ve been taking care of your kids as my own, while you refuse to acknowledge my existence and, flat out, hide when you see me.

You choose to love yourself above anyone else.

You choose to cower in your hoarder, piss infested “palace” amongst fake crystals, reading your tarot every day, without actually understanding how it all works beyond the book that accompanies your set, rather than pay attention to your children’s school work (it’s OK, your nanny will take care of it).

You choose to bake failed Pinterest cupcake projects (out of a box) for co-workers, rather than feed your children anything nutritious.

You choose to #selfcare and #treatyoself to spa days, overpriced manicures and shiteous hair jobs (more often than anyone I know), rather than making sure your kids ever fucking bathe or brush their teeth (it’s OK, I’ve taken over all of their doctor appointments now).

You choose to spend obsene amounts of money on a wardrobe that doesn’t even fit your fat ass. And while we’re on the topic of your unfortunate anatomy, when you filter (to death), squeeze and stretch your selfies to pretend you’re skinnier and your wrinkle riddled face isn’t so – just remember that your co-workers and family already know what you look like as you waddle through your sad, pretend life every day.

Here’s your mother of the year award, heifer. You deserve it. I can’t even imagine how hard your life must be when, whilst pushing 40, your mummy and daddy are still paying your bills. When you fly to incredible places for free and spend all your time secluded and scared, while I make up excuses when your kids ask me why you won’t Skype with them. It must be hard to have everyone else, and a television, take care of your children, because, let’s face it – you don’t know how. It must be hard to fake your happiness on a daily basis.

I call you heifer not just because of your  ̶u̶d̶d̶e̶r̶s̶ size, but also because you embody that moniker to the tee by being a textbook narcissist pig. Though your “spirit animal” is a unicorn, the reality is that you’re a busted cow with a stick hastily duct taped to her empty head.

You’re a real catch. #SingleSundays