By Kelly Hoover Greenway
The second season of The Handmaid’s Tale has come to an end, and it’s left us with many questions. Is Aunt Lydia really dead? What will Offred do now? Will I never be able to listen to Annie Lennox again without picturing Emily/Rory Gilmore in the backseat of that car?
But one question I don’t have is whether or not the dumpster fire that is the Trump Administration is leading us straight into the Republic of Gilead ourselves. I don’t have that question because I already know the answer. Yes, yes it is.
But instead of going my usual route of trying to protect reproductive rights, fight for the LGBTQ community, or protest the separation of babies from their parents at the border, I’ve decided to take Sheryl Sandberg’s advice finally and just, lean in.
This is our new reality, good people of America, and we should begin to accept the truth, as awful as it might be. We are fucked. BUT AT LEAST I LOOK GOOD IN RED!
In embracing my new state of acceptance, I realized that I’m actually in a bit of a pickle. You see, I don’t qualify to be a Handmaid. I’m not divorced, and my husband hasn’t been either. In theory, we would likely be part of the “working class” who help keep Gilead running (I’ve still not recovered from what happened to the bread delivery guy…), but because I am one of those pesky, vocal feminists, I will be categorized as an “Unwoman” and sent to the Colonies. Friends, this is a BIG problem. I’m not really built for manual labor. Or nuclear waste.
Therefore, I’ve devised a plan. I’ve decided to call this ambulance-chasing lawyer I saw on a commercial one time in the Valley who will forge divorce papers for $99. I know, it’s extreme. But we all have our limits, and dying a brutal death after ruining my nail beds and losing my teeth in the Colonies is mine.
So with my station settled, my next order of business is my Handmaid’s uniform. I’m sure Melania is heading up the Department of Wardrobe (sponsored by Zara), but given how quickly those jackets sold out, I’d really like to prepare ahead of time so I can get it to my tailor before the rush (or he gets killed by the militia).
My first choice when I want to get something fast is, of course, Amazon Prime. Sidebar: God I’m going to miss Amazon Prime. The only trouble is that when I go online to check what’s in stock, all they have are the cheap knock-off versions that people ironically wore as Halloween costumes last year.
Thankfully, I used my last Halloween of freedom to dress up as a slutty giraffe. They may be able to take my womb, BUT THEY CAN NEVER TAKE MY MEMORIES!
Blessed be the fruit.
Since Amazon Prime isn’t an option, I went to my next choice, Etsy. One would think that some enterprising woman with higher moral values than I would have already cornered the market on this goldmine. Kellyanne Conway perhaps? But alas, the first thing that comes up is a very poorly-reviewed shop based in Ukraine. Things are not looking good for us sinners who cannot sew, ladies.
With limited options and time running out, I decided to turn to the uniform experts. You see, years ago I produced a reality competition show, (even more reason why I can’t work in the Colonies: I have no tangible skills) and I met some amazing fashion designers in the process.
So I took to Facebook in order to see if they could help. As it turns out, I can get a custom-made uniform for about $600 and have it on my doorstep in approximately a week!
May the Lord open.
I would share their information with you, but it’s every woman for themselves these days, so I’m not going to. Sorry (not sorry). What I will say is this. There’s something very freeing about knowing what’s coming my way, and it ain’t a Commander’s d*ck.
Under His Eye.
About the Author
Kelly Hoover Greenway is a TV executive and writer who also loves makeup and dismantling the patriarchy. She spends her days trying to develop the next big thing in reality TV and her nights watching Netflix with her husband. Dark chocolate is usually involved as well. When she’s not chasing after her two sons or trying to keep the family dog from eating everyone’s food, she can be found writing about the absurdities of parenting at Mommy Dearest Inc. and on Instagram and Facebook.