Opinion: Proud to be your guilty pleasure


About once every six months, hate mail compels me to offer a defense of not only my column, but also the choices I make as a mother, wife and liberal, soulless redhead. With Thanksgiving upon us, however, I’m taking a new approach. Here’s why you should actually be thankful for me:

I make you feel better about yourself. I’ve been called a “sinner,” “drunk” and “child abuser.” I’m apparently going to hell and I will supposedly be divorced by 2021 because of the way I treat my husband. I’m also rarely funny and consistently cross the stupid line. How amazingly perfect you are in comparison!

I help you burn calories. Because of the significant increases in both your blood pressure and heart rate while reading about my latest judgment-worthy shenanigans, you can skip your daily exercise routine and enjoy a workout from the comfort of your own Barcalounger. You’re welcome!

I’m your guilty pleasure. Like a horrible car accident, you just can’t help but stare at my article each week, even though you tell yourself you really shouldn’t read such “trash.” But it’s OK! You’re allowed to indulge yourself once in a while. Moderation in all things, right?

I provide solid water-cooler fodder. Mom-shamers, zipper-merge etiquette, Trump’s teenage antics, IU drinkfests … what would you talk about with your gal pals at Wednesday Bible Study or Thursday MOPS if it weren’t for me? The Indy suburbs need some spice occasionally. Consider me your weekly dose of cayenne pepper!

There you have it. Four reasons to be thankful for me! Peace out.