June Cleaver...

There are so many things that I want to be...a published author, a race car driver, a sailor (ok...maybe not a sailor...but I swear so fucking much, I figure I must be practicing for something...) But there are just things that I have never cared to be. One of them is Housewife Extraordinaire..(know in advance that I used spell check on that bitch...what a word, huh?) Please tell me why it is necessary to even LIKE to do housework...let alone EXCEL at it? Now...put down the phone...it is unnecessary to call Children's Services, my house is not in shambles...this is only because of an obsessive compulsive habit that I have picked up along the way...but back to the point. Why is it necessary to be able to clean the house with a home made concoction of vinegar and flower petals, cook a delicious three course meal, in which none of the courses originated in a box or was delivered through the front door, and smile the whole fucking time?
I can BARELY make mac n' chee without swearing. (Shocking...since I can hardly type a sentence without swearing!!)
I have a friend who...although she doesn't "bring home the bacon..." She sure can FRY that bitch up in a pan. You go to her house and it is a mother fucking shrine to June Cleaver. Actually, my other friend...also housekeepingly challenged...and I refer to her AS June Cleaver. I know she wears dresses and aprons around the house and makes cakes from scratch. She just has a way of making you feel inferior...yeah. I get that she doesn't work "outside the home" which is her way of saying that her job as domestic engineer is just as important as, say, a neurosurgeon or astronaut. In fact...I have a big problem with that. Really. I think next time we are over, I am going to refuse to take my shoes off. Don't worry. There is actually no danger of us getting invited back to their house any time soon. Last visit went like this..."MOM! RITA is driving me crazy." "MOM! Can we go home soon?" Every 5 minutes one of my kids would come and complain about something that one of her kids did or said. Admittedly, her kids are annoying...especially "rita." Rita is not her real name...because my friends read this...and although I am pretty sure you are going to know who I am talking about...I hate to confirm anything...anyway...yes. So her kids are annoying. Oh. And there was that little Fist fight my husband and I nearly got into in the middle of our sweet little card game...complete with a spread of appetizers, don't you know. Yeah. So the night pretty much took a turn for the worst when we engaged in a fight normally reserved for the combat zone which is our bedroom. I swear I am not making this next part up. She called me for a week straight after that to let me know she had prayed for us that day. If I believed she wore pants, I know the knees would be worn thin on most of them...due to her praying for us.
Anyway...if you ever come to our house...and on the off chance I have invited you to dinner...you can rest assured that at least 50% of what we are having was delivered through the front door, and the other 50% originated in a box. The house will be clean...but I doubt I would be serving punch from the toilet. I can't...no I WON'T be that woman.
A side note to this? When my husband was serving our beloved country in Iraq, I was at home minding the kids and working full time...balancing the checkbook, keeping the house from foreclosure, all the while laughing and dancing a jig...There were times when someone would come to the door...our car was out front, the tv was on...but strangely enough, no one would answer. That is because I bribed the kids to be quiet in the upstairs bedroom so that they would go away...at any given time, you could do math homework in the dust on top of the TV...my youngest son was so familiar with the pizza guy, that he hugged him every time he saw him. In defense of the pizza guy, he was kinda cute, he ALWAYS brought food, and he asked how my husband was doing. I stopped alternating pizza places after I came clean to him one night about the whole Iraq card. I am sure I paid for his kids private school tuition that year with my tips. If you came over AND I let you in...you had better of gone to the bathroom before you left your house...because there was NO WAY I would let you use the upstairs bathroom. That would require you to traipse through our upstairs...past the messy bedrooms, down the hall, littered with dust bunnies and trucks. I am proud to say that I have a handle on things now...I am just not ANAL about it.
Anyway...about that career as a race car driver...