You had me at "Oreo".

Every so often, in my virtual travels 'round the internet, I come across Blogs of a Certain Type. You know the ones I'm talking about: they are like digital diaries, written by women who know no greater joy than to write earnest, frequent, faux-confessional posts about their feeeeeeeeelings, and then sit back while their similarly-afflicted sycophants erupt in a cacophony of shrieking validation via the comments.

In general, when I encounter one of these posts, I just shake my head and move on. Experience has taught me that this is the Right Thing To Do; I doubt that I need to remind anyone what happened the last time I dared to make fun of one of these blogs.

Apparently, however, even the teachings of Experience have their limits.

And so it was that I recently came across the following:

Sometimes I worry that I’m not a good wife. I know my husband adores me, but I feel inadequate at times.

Oh, my. How troubling. But what do you mean, 'inadequate'?

I don’t cook that often and can be really gross and unlady like.

Umm.... well, I guess if you did something really horrific--

Example: I ate an oreo off of the floor the other day and I have no problem laying in my own filth when I am sick/sad/lonely, etc. I pick at my face when I’m bored and keep the dvr filled with episodes of John & Kate + 8 and Gossip Girl. I can be really selfish and downright mean at times. I am working on becoming a better version of me but there are some days I wonder what it is he sees that keeps him in love with me.

...uh-huh.

I'm not linking back, here -- not just because I would prefer to avoid the inevitable shitstorm that comes when you call someone out for writing about their feeeeelings, but because honestly, this isn't even ABOUT that blog, or that blogger, specifically. Rather, this post is symptomatic of a far larger, more insidious, diseased mindset that seems to be spreading throughout the blogosphere -- one in which "wife" is viewed as something that one does, rather than as something that one is.

Which, in addition to being a truly nauseous idea, is just plain silly.

"Wife" is not an achievement. That's the nice thing about it, actually -- the list of required qualifications for the position of Wife is blissfully, beautifully short. To determine whether or not you qualify, simply ask yourself this question:

Do you have a vagina?
Yes?
Hey, congratulations, lady. You've got what it takes.

You do not have to major in Wife. You do not need to intern, pay dues, or climb any sort of corporate ladder to get there. You don't need prior experience. Hell, you don't even have to have any fucking skills. (Although based on my piddling 3 months of wifely experience, the ability to put stray socks in their proper place is potentially valuable.) And again, these are the nice things about it -- the only requirement of the position, apart from the vadge, is that you have somebody to do the other half of the job.

Which, needless to say, has fuck-all to do with cooking abilities, reality television, or whether or not you shower every day. Men know this: nobody's husband sits around wondering if he's worthy of love because he likes to scratch his ass and then sniff his finger afterwards. That's his business. And if your husband has a problem with any of the above, you get to give him the finger (with which you may or may not have just scratched your own ass) and say, "Oh yeah, motherfucker? Guess you should've thought about that before you asked me to be your wife!"

That's the beauty of marriage.

That, or I'm a super-shitty wife.

~~~ post script ~~~

Dear readers,
The day that I consider "I ate an Oreo off the floor" to be some sort of scandalous confession will be the day that I invite all of you to kill me.
love and kisses,
Kat