“On a Thursday afternoon in March, after a lively morning of scrubbing congealed dog vomit from the kitchen floor, incinerating two consecutive batches of banana pancakes, powering through a potty-training fiasco of epic magnitude, and listening to her four-year-old daughter’s earnest yet harrowing rendition of Let It Go at least a dozen times, Rita lost her shit while struggling impotently to fold a fitted sheet, and locked herself in the upstairs bathroom. She sat down on the fluffy pink toilet seat with her head in her hands, and began to cry…”

Perimenopausal breakdown and lost objects mysteriously appearing from a housewife’s vagina. You know you want to read it.

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