Run, Forrest, Run

I love to chastise and belittle my mother for being what I think of as incompetent. From not knowing how to pump gas to being unable to navigate her way to the corner store, my mom is pretty much incapable of getting along on her own, and I've never made a secret of my disdain for her helplessness.

Here's the thing, though. I'm kind of incompetent, too.

Now that Glenn and I have decided not to work on things, I've been forced to think about all the things that get done around here and the fact that I really have no idea how to do any of them. Since switching from Netflix to Blockbuster, I no longer know how to order movies; I have no idea how to use my DVR; I can't do anything involving connection to the Internet; and I don't even know how to put Frontline on my dogs. How sad is that?

How sad is it that, in 2012, I'm as stereotypically dependent on a man as I am? That if Glenn doesn't do something, it doesn't get done?

But wait...there's more. I'm not just stereotypically dependent on a man. I'm astereotypically dependent on one, too. I am most definitely not the best housekeeper the world's ever seen: I don't know how to sew a button on (or anything else for that matter); I don't do laundry; I can't wield the vacuum; I'm not strong enough to remove dirt and grime and mildew from the shower/bathtub; and I'm apparently incapable of making a meal that every member of my family enjoys.

I can't do anything.

I think it's time for me to face the fact that despite the large amount of time I've spent in school and having an IQ of roughly 130 (depending on the test--in all honesty, they've ranged from 126 to 142), I'm highly incapable.

In fact, I'm really kind of a moron.

(Well, this sucks.)