Sure, I have given that dimpled debutante of the dinner table Ree Drummond, better also known as the Pioneer Woman, her fair share of satirical grief here in the past. And, really, it’s only because, as so many #blessed stay-at-home moms in ill-fitting stirrup pants and sexless sweatshirts featuring a basket of puppies outlined in puff-paint have so dutifully informed me, I am “manically jealous” of all her empirical successes, from books and TV and everything in-between while I have nothing.
Which is all very true. Hers is an echelon of achievement that I shall never even come close to attaining in this flicked Marlboro butt of a life I’ve made for myself as a “yellow journalist,” barely scraping by in life financially, let alone emotionally and nutritionally, hanging out in mall food courts and eating the cold orange chicken and soggy pizza crusts leave behind on abandoned tables, hopefully, while she and her sexy hubby live it up on the high horse at a multi-million dollar Pawhuska ranch.