About a week before the housekeepers come (they come fortnightly), I start getting this horrible, anxious feeling, this sense that I’m oppressed by possessions to the point of suffocation, that I’m a failure as a human being and life is too hard to live. Then after the housekeepers come, I have this wonderful feeling of relief that lasts right up until the house starts looking trashed again (usually 48 hours later).
The housekeepers came yesterday, and today I have a spring in my step, and what shall I do with this spring? Something productive, mayhaps? BZZZZ!
True story: Remember those books I was talking about that I borrowed from a friend a million years ago but haven’t ever read or returned? Well, a few days ago I put them in a bag. Then I put the bag in my car. Then yesterday I went to this friend’s house and we went out to lunch together. We rode in my car. I pointed to the bag in the back seat and said, “Hey, those are your books! I remembered to bring them!” Then we ate lunch and I dropped her off at her house. This morning I got in my car, and there was the bag of books, still in the back seat. You saw that coming a mile away, didn’t you? Why didn’t I?
A totally unrelated thing: I have long been a fan of Larry Elder and was really sad when his Portland radio station dropped him. Then his flagship station dropped him and he kept saying he was going to do a subscription-based webcast, which never materialized, but now he is back on KABC Los Angeles again. I was thrilled to find his podcast on iTunes, but unfortunately it is not his complete show, just selections from it, which is lame. Well, I’ll take what I can get, and it is a free podcast, but I’d gladly pay for the whole enchilada. I enjoy his righteous indignation. Of course, I can theoretically listen live to KABC on the internet, but that is not convenient for me. I like to listen to my podcasts while I am wandering around the house doing stuff and have the host’s voice speaking right into my ear, where I can hear him or her. No matter how high I turn up the sound on the computer, I’m never going to be able to understand the words if I have to go in some other room or if the kids are around–and if the kids are around, they’ll complain about my stupid radio show being too loud, so no, that’s just not a realistic option. Oh, the trials we overfed white women have to endure!
Trials, for instance, like grocery shopping, which I did not do today because I was too busy feeling relaxed and happy about my clean house. Well, I’ll be making my obligatory trip to the Safeway after taking Elvis to speech therapy this afternoon. We always go to the Safeway after speech therapy so Elvis can get a soda and two cans of shaving cream. I’d explain, but I think you’d rather use your imaginations. Or maybe I just don’t want to be bothered. Anyway, I have to figure out what we’re going to eat for dinner tonight.
It’s always a problem, figuring out what to make for dinner. My husband isn’t going to be home this evening; he’s usually not home on Thursday evenings. Usually when Sugar Daddy isn’t going to be home for dinner, I make food that he doesn’t like. Sometimes it’s food that I don’t like either. Sometimes it just barely qualifies as “food.” I find that I have very little motivation to cook when the husband isn’t around. It’s like there’s no one to impress, so why fake it? Princess Zurg appreciates good food; she’s quite the gourmand, but she’s only twelve. Why should I slave over a hot stove for one twelve-year-old gourmand? Is it her birthday? No. Sigh. I’m sorely tempted to do the chicken nuggets thing, but my kids eat enough crap at school; I feel somewhat obligated to not serve them crap at home. Perhaps if I served a vegetable, that would ease my guilty conscience.
Look at me now–feeling guilty when there’s a clean house all about. That’s messed up! You know what I could go for right now? A massage. But I only have 20 minutes before I have to pick Mister Bubby up from school, so that’s probably not enough time to go get a massage. I’ve never been to a professional massage person. I’ve had massages from people who knew how to give massages–my step-mother, who’s a physical therapist, and a friend who was studying naturopathic medicine and interning with a massage therapist–but I’ve never paid for a massage. Not that I’m against paying, but I dunno, I think I’m uptight or something because the thought of some stranger laying their hands on me and making me feel that good just seems…I don’t know. Not wrong. More like there’s so much potential for humiliation. Do you know what I’m saying? So, yeah, I’m obviously uptight–which is why I need a massage. O Bitter Irony!
This blog post is lame. I must have used up all my blogworthy bloggy goodness on the post I wrote for BCC, which may not be the greatest thing I ever wrote, but it was sure a long time in the making. To give you some idea of how long it took me to write this post, go check out the first line and know that in the original draft it read, “The other day I read this piece by Joe Epstein…” Exaggerating only slightly. So I’m glad to have that done and taken care of, too. Another reason for spring in ye olde step.
Yeah, I got nothing, kids. I just wanted to check in, let you know that I’m definitely NOT on Facebook right now.