ESSAY

The Oh-So Glamorous Life of a Single Broad

Chasing the Smoke Alarm

Amazing Artwork by the Talented Ms. Walter

I’m no spring chicken.

Not that it matters. A single broad is a single broad, it doesn’t matter how old she is.

The thing about living alone — younger children excluded — is sometimes things come up in the household that are challenging for a princess. Even princesses who claim to be no spring chicken. You know, they’ve been around the block a time or two, but they’re still that perky young helpless thang on the inside.

Scratch that. Not helpless. I refuse to be helpless. In fact, I refuse to ask for help — like ever. That’s not exactly to my benefit. I’m rather stubbornly strong in many ways. Just as my sisters in singlehood are too.

But here’s the thing.

Again — there are, or can be, certain limitations to what we might be able to accomplish in the household. For example — height. There can be height limitations compared to, say, a man. Also, growing up, I never learned (or, in my case, wanted to learn) the art of household maintenance. Sure, I bought myself a little tool kit in a bright teal box. And I bought a pink drill. What the hell I do with these things I have no clue. I couldn’t hammer a nail if it knocked me in the face. My towel hanger thing is always falling…