I Feel Guilty!
I have been putting off this month's money beg to the end of the month, because I could not bear asking you for money to fund your Wonkette while I am LIVING IT UP (working) from Mexico. Also, I am taking today off because it is my 46th birthday, just as soon as I finish this wee bit of work. I feel guilty.
Haven't you already been in Mexico for two weeks now, you are wondering, if you knew I had been in Mexico already for two weeks now. Yes, and we are staying for almost another week, coming home the day after the SEVENTH anniversary of when I bought your Wonkette with a thimble, a paper clip, and this burnt piece of cork! But I am working, really, just from a lovely patio in constant 80 degrees instead of a blizzard, while Shy and Donna Rose go on aventuras, and it is wonderful, and I feel bad.
Did I hire a translator and interview people about Mexico and America and Trump and the babies in jail? Did I hie me out to find a caravan? No, just like I didn't do jackshit the time we went out to cover the New Hampshire primary and all I did was sit and watch the Morning Joe broadcast from a hotel, but to be fair the baby was six months old and outside it was no degrees. I felt terrible then too. Also, the caravans are very far from Tulum.
This time I am feeling more guilty than usual. We have been, as is our wont, wonderfully overtipping the young girls who cleaned our lovely, funky, old hotel room, $10 a day when in a hotel at home it would be maybe $5. (We don't stay at hotels at home; we have Wonkebago.) "Twelve dollars a day is the minimum daily wage," our friend told us. "You are way overtipping." HOORAY! After almost a week there, the girls can have a party or a dinner for their families or secret the money away for themselves for later, I thought, very pleased with me! On the second day, the girls left flower petals and a rose they must have picked at home, and a Kinder egg and candy bracelet for the baby. And I felt loved and appreciated, and wait, why are poor people giving presents to the rich lady and her daughter who has every toy in the universe already? But then I looked it up and the daily minimum wage here is $5, and then I felt worse, again. The literal crumbs from our extremely pleasant middle-class American lives are riches and we must, must, must find a way to even it out beyond whether a woman feels like playing Lady Bountiful. A new NAFTA, probably, undoubtedly, one emblazoned with Trump's name in gold. My husband left $25 for the girls on the last morning. I love him really a lot.
And so I have been putting off the money beg. Many of you are very fixed income, and it seems horrible to ask you for funds while I am Senora Richbags de Montana Lago. If you don't want to give us money this month, FUCKIN BOY do I understand. I don't want you to give me money either. GROSS! But then I remember that -- what??? -- Wonkette is not just me. In fact, it's hardly me at all, since I never write anymore except the monthly money post. (I blame Twitter, 100 ideas rushing at my head every five minutes, and also, say it with me, I FEEL GUILTY.) I do the editing, and the assigning, and the thank you notes (which were all a week late this week, and I'm pretty sure you get today's theme on how I feel about that), but Wonkette is Evan, and Dok, and Five Dollar Feminist, and Bianca, Stephen and Dom, AND ROBYN I FORGOT ROBYN, and despite my shameful extravagance this month, I have to ask for money to keep them paid and give the staff vacation days, which they probably spend with Michelle Obama and the king of Spain.
But seriously, please don't give us money this month if you're like NAH. I fucking get it, and we love you ALL THE SAME.
Rebecca Schoenkopf is the owner, publisher, and editrix of Wonkette. She is a nice lady, SHUT UP YUH HUH. She is very tired with this fucking nonsense all of the time, and it would be terrific if you sent money to keep this bitch afloat. She is on maternity leave until 2033.