self-care

Life is hard. It’s just really hard sometimes.

This week, Aunt Ginger is taking a much needed sick day! Even purple-haired sex shop moguls have to slow down and remember to practice self-care.

For those of you just tuning in, my wifespouse wanted to go to this weirdo punk festival in the middle of nowhere, and I, a chronic pessimist, decided it would be a good idea to go as a family. That means me, her, our 1-year-old child, and one incredibly intense weekend.

“You’re fat and ugly,” I’d hear, or, “Look at your stomach, it’s disgusting!” This wasn’t a neighborhood bully taunting me on my way to school — this is what I said to myself all day long, well into adulthood.

It all started with a text from my roomie, Kori: "I am manifesting lying out, and getting some sun on my cooch."

I went to the premiere of Bad Moms last week. I might have peed my pants during the movie and it took about two days until my face stopped hurting. I don’t remember the last time I laughed so hard. (Okay, fine. There’s no “might have.” I did pee my pants. So what?)

My husband of 11 years recently and suddenly left me and our two children, ages 2 and 6. They are not yet aware that he’s gone. They think he’s traveling for work. I know it’s only a matter of time before they figure it out.

CN: mention of postpartum depression/suicidality. Generally, in my experience, people often get so excited about a new baby, that they forget that postpartum women need doting on, too.