I'm such an idiot. I keep falling in the perfectionism trap. Granted, it's usually my mother who pushes me into it, but I stupidly stand right in front of it like a moron. My house is never neat and clean enough, the food I make never delicious enough, or if it is delicious, it's not healthy enough.

I should give myself a fucking break. God, I'm such a bitch to me sometimes.

This is part of the reason I called myself ÜberMilf. Because I think everyone wants to have sex with me? No. God, no. PLEASE, no. I'm tired enough as it is. It's the whole idea of perfection that both attracts and disgusts me.

To the misogynist voyeour who I imagine judging my body harshly: "Oh, I'm sorry, I gave birth twice and my stomach isn't taut as a twenty-year-old's. Shut up, you fucking idiot! Can't you respect my womanly body!" To myself: "Oh my God, I can't believe I ate potato chips. I better work out tomorrow. God, I'm such a lazy slob. I'm so fat. I'm surprised they make clothes that still fit me. I wonder how much pressure my girdle can withstand."

Now I was thinking about all the perfectionism thrust upon us on a daily basis. Sure, there's the constant barrage of products meant to make us more attractive and inoffensive-smelling. But think about the whole process of feeding one's family today.

Once upon a time, tacos and spaghetti were considering exciting cultural adventures in eating. People actually ate boiled potatoes or plain white rice and canned vegetables with maybe a little butter and salt. You breaded and pan-fried your chicken or pork chops or stuck a roast or meatloaf in the oven.

Nobody expected ethnically-diverse, expertly-seasoned, gourmet-quality meals every night. Maybe they still don't. But I expect myself to thrill everyone with dinner every night. Why? I don't know.

But I feel guilty about my detox-dinner of salmon, brown rice and broccoli tonight. I tried to put a little dill in the rice, but...

Sigh. I am a failure. An utter, abject failure.

And I haven't even broached the subject of the disorderly mass of shoes by the door. Or the laundry. Oy, the laundry. Somebody call DCFS; I am a complete loser.