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“I’m only moderately attracted to you, Matthew. Perhaps you should time travel to 2013 and marry the author of this blog.” #Notrelatedtohousekeeper

I’ve decided to focus my life to be more “Downton.” The show really has shaped me these past six weeks, showing me that the life I’ve been pursuing is meaningful and shrouded in selflessness. No more.

Moving forward:

1) I will take my breakfast only in bed while my maid opens my 300-lb curtains (shrouded in the dust of my ancestors), assembles my ankle-skimming outfit, uses a scientific thermometer to check the temperature of my scented bath water and generally kisses my ass. If I’m in the mood, I’ll ask about her husband’s prison sentence and pretend to be alarmed when she tells me she hasn’t received a letter in weeks. However, I won’t really hear what she’s saying, I’ll actually be thinking, “Goddammit, I already wore that hat she pulled out three months ago. The level I’ve stooped to is disgraceful.” Then I shall eat half a poached egg and four cups of tea.

2) Once I’ve eaten a hearty meal, I’ll descend to where the menfolk are, and pretend I have a brain by bitching about the state of the estate. I need new hats. My father mentions something about a Ponzi scheme that Matthew poo-poos. It sounds like a good idea to me, and I think my husband needs to keep staying super attractive by shutting his mouth and doing whatever I want.

3) After this draining ordeal, I shall take a constitutional around the estate. A well-bred woman exercises enough each day to work off the numerous tea pastries consumed throughout the day. When I need inspiration, I look at Patmore who is obviously the product of taste-testing tea pastries for six decades.

4) Speaking of tea pastries, my  Mother-in-Law (Who Is Also My Cousin #effedup) From Hell is visiting, so I sit on the edge of a pink sofa and pretend to listen to her while stuffing my face with Patmore’s flaky baklava and wondering if Pamook loved baklava. He was from Turkey, right?

5) I sit down at my desk and write letters to numerous people whose identities are forever nebulous, but nevertheless must be written.to.every.single.day. Whenever I get bored with that, I take five minutes’ break to refresh my creativity by adding to my, “How to Be a Bitch to My Sister” list.

6) Resist my husband’s endearing attempts at “baby-making” (#whosaysthatcirca1922?) by pretending to be too overwhelmed with sorrow at the death of my sister Edith.

7) Freudian slip. My sister Sybil.

8) Cuddle cute baby just to further drive my husband crazy. So fun!

9) Go back upstairs with my maid to dress for dinner. Gotta keep up appearances with the people who’ve already seen me all day in my ankle-skimming tweed. Thank God I don’t have to wear a hat to dinner. Listen to my father take a few classy cheap shots at Catholics with my brother-in-law sitting right there and keeping a polite cool. My sister clearly married below her.

10) Go prepare myself for bed while the men drink quarts of scotch with no apparent effect on their sobriety #mydadwilldrinkyouunderthetableohiostate.

11) Feign unsexy stomachache post-30-tea pastries when my husband joins me in his purple silk pajamas. Need my beauty sleep. Tomorrow is another day of uneventful self-centeredness!

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