An Open Letter From Susan: Who Are You Calling Lazy?

By Julie Scagell

Something has been on my mind for quite some time now and I need to get it off my plate. I spend all day twirling around, like an attention-starved ballerina, trying to win your affection. Everything I do is to make your life easier, more convenient. But to you, I am still “Lazy Susan.”

I enjoy serving up tasty taco options for our family. I mean your family.

Need some more tomatoes? Here you go.

A splash more Cotija? No, no, don’t get up. I’ve got you covered.

I seem to be doing all the work here but still you call me lazy.

I’m not jealous by nature, but I see your affection towards the slow cooker. And really, you know I’m not one to complain, but of all the options for sluggishness in your line of sight, I’m the one you name call? You can see the irony here, right? Rebecca? The slow cooker literally cannot cook food any slower.

The slow cooker gets prime real estate on the kitchen counter while I am relegated to the cupboard next to the fondue pot. Don’t even get me started on the fondue pot.

I guess, while we are airing our dirty laundry, Rebecca, I can’t let the cheese grater go without mention. It’s just positioned there stubbornly while you profusely sweat, grinding above it. I know how passionate you are about cheese. Your disdain for the pre-shredded variety is one of the things I admire most about you. But I would be remiss if I didn’t point out that you are the one left laboring.

I’m just spit-balling here, but wouldn’t “Lazy Grater” seem a more appropriate moniker?

And I don’t want to sound bitter here, but I don’t see you insulting the new spiralizer with your vitriol as you mount it to the countertop. It’s just suctioned there, contemptuous, as you shove zucchini after zucchini into it, willing those zoodles to make you whole.

They won’t.

Then comes the ultimate indignity: you purchased a Keurig. You can’t bother to make a goddamn decent cup of coffee yourself, grinding beans the way God intended. Not you, you indolent waste.

Trashing our planet with your tiny, non-recyclable cups while you brag about composting. No one is buying your shit, Rebecca. Name calling, yet refusing to look at your own reflection in the mirror. I’m not going to just spin here and be your punching bag. Not anymore.

I’m sorry. I…I’m sorry. That escalated quickly. I don’t know what got into me. Allow me make it up to you. I’ve prepared a nice cheese board with some charcuterie.

The Roquefort? Don’t you move a muscle. It’s on its way.


About the Author

Julie has a Masters degree in Psychology, which has proved useless in trying to understand her teenaged daughter. She has the attention span of a gnat, zero sense of direction and loses at least 3 things every day. Except for a minor situation at a county fair, her children are not on the short list of items she’s lost. She is extremely proud of this. She has been published on Washington Post, Babble, McSweeney’s, Scary Mommy, and Huffington Post, among others.