Sorry I've been slacking in the commenting department lately - I assure you that it's not for lack of interest. Sometime last week I determined that I'd finally had enough of the general disorder and filth around here and decided that it was time once and for all to get my act together and get some housework done. I really busted ass all weekend and the house has actually been restored to some semblance of order again. I mean, let's not get ahead of ourselves, there's still much more to be done, but at least we all have clean underwear
in our dressers biatches (oh yeah, we be fancy now). What's more, this morning I didn't have to perform an emergency scramble for socks, which usually requires that I blindly rummage through 10 loads of unfolded laundry piled up precariously in my laundry room, all the while praying to god that I don't cause some sort of laundry avalanche. On more than one occasion the children have had to settle for socks that don't match. Well, their socks match today, baby! Booyah!
I'm about to continue my 1950's housewife shtick and go vacuum something - oh trust me, I'm sure this little phase will run it's course and my household will once again begin to look more like a re-run of
Roseanne than
Leave it to Beaver. For the time being, however, I will leave you with this...
Last night we were enjoying a typical EW dinner. Okay, maybe not so typical: the hubs was having a steak and I was having a martini (okay you got me again, I was actually eating a meal too - I'm not a
complete lush. But I
did mention that I'm pretending to live in the 1950's. Aren't steaks and martinis pretty much prerequisites for any 1950's fantasy?) Anyway, Maggs inquired as to what her father was eating...
Dad: Steak
Maggs: What's steak?
Dad: Beef, which is from cows.
Maggs: (Incredulous, even though we've told her this before)
Cows?!
Dad: Yeah, cows.
Maggs: You mean the kind that go "moo?"
Dad: Yeah.
Maggs: (Suspiciously, as if she's onto us) Um, then why isn't it mooing anymore?
The conversation continued until Maggs wanted to know specific details about how cows are killed and then made into steak. I kind of shushed the hubs because Maggs still weeps inconsolably about (what she considers) the untimely death of Goldie the goldfish over 2 years ago. I'm pretty sure she'd require therapy if the hubs were to detail the slaying and butchering of her favorite barnyard friend.
By the way, my son, over-tired from a busy weekend, had already been dismissed from the dinner table at this point for unacceptable behavior - AKA whining, complaining, and generally being unpleasant. I guess the Beav didn't get the memo requesting that he behave like a Stepford child until further notice. Let's hope that while he's at school today a space pod replaces my son's current incarnation with a more 1950's sitcom-friendly version...
