Okay, so apparently there’s a contestant on the new season of Survivor. Her name is Dawn Meehan. My name is Dawn Meehan. She’s forty-one years old. I’m forty-one years old. She has six kids. I have six kids. Apparently she’s all fit and ready to compete on Survivor. I like rum. Okay, well I may not be exactly fit, but I compete in my own version of Survivor every day. And I win!
Seriously, let’s see that other Dawn take care of six kids while working two jobs, and let’s see her do it as a single mom without an ounce of help. I don’t know if she can be considered a survivor unless she can move across the country, away from family and friends and start over by herself. And let’s see her deal with students who have 50 minutes to write 3 sentences, but despite my constant help and hovering, only manage to write one mediocre phrase that doesn’t really accurately use the vocabulary word at all. (No lie and no exaggeration. This job may kill me.)
And really, can this other Dawn survive on four hours of sleep a night? Can she make dinner, help kids with homework, pay bills with the money she and she alone earns, vacuum the crushed Cheerios out of the carpet, insist the boys clean the bathroom again and this time use actual cleaning products and not just their socks, pick up her daughter from swim practice, teach her son to drive, make a doctor appointment for her daughter, cut her son’s hair, break up an argument over a red crayon, read to the five-year-old, and search for her secret stash of chocolate all at the same time? I think not.
And she’s not only a name-thief, but she’s messing up my Giga Alerts! Every time I get an alert that my name has been mentioned on the web somewhere, it’s not about me; it’s about her. My alerts used to be about me, but now there’s this, this, this impostor stealing my thunder.
Really, I’m sure she’s a delightful person (she has to be with a name like Dawn and six kids, right?) and I hope she does well on Survivor. If she lived around here, I’d invite her to join me for a glass of wine so we could compare notes. We could be best friends (unless she makes her kids wholesome lunches in bento boxes with little organic mustard smiley faces in which case, she needs to go down. But I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt because her kids are all adopted so I’m guessing she’s an inherently good person. But she needs to stay out of my Giga Alerts. Just sayin’.
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