Domestic Plights

I'm not exactly Martha Stewart.  I'm positive I fold my towels the wrong way.  I don't have little bags of smelly stuff in my underwear drawer-sachets, I believe they're called.  My idea of floral arranging is swinging by ShopRite, picking up their 3 bunches of wilted daisies for ten bucks and tossing them none-too-delicately in my K-Mart special vase.  I can say with certainty that my husband has seen the inside of our washing machine more than I have and I don't even want to tell you that last time I looked behind the toilet; but I know without a shadow of a doubt whatever creature lurks back there keeps eating my hair elastics.

Don't get me wrong, I do my part.  I happen to love to cook.  And bake.  And, do both fairly well if I may say so myself.  I get a bizarre sense of accomplishment out of scrubbing the kitchen floor.  I love to take out the recycling.  I make sure all of our bills get paid on time.  I fluff all of the pillows in the living room on a daily basis-for some reason I feel better that the floor is covered in garbage if the pillows on the couch look pretty.  

Truthfully, though, (and I will tread carefully here for those super-women who can do it all and bake cookies too), I don't really care all that much that I don't do my dishes everyday.  It doesn't really bother me that the same sweatshirt has been hanging to dry on the back of one of the dining room chairs for the last three weeks.  The milk in my fridge has most likely expired and I think that strange squeezy bottle of relish is older than some of our bottles of wine. 

When it comes down to it, I'd rather put my sweats on when I get home.  Go for a walk.  Catch the last ten minutes of Oprah.  Maybe read something none-work related for once.  Eat some ice-cream.  Then do some crunches.  Then reward myself by eating more ice cream.  Perhaps someday I'll get better at this "keeping house" thing.  For now, I am going to order a pizza and take solice in the fact that I will recycle the box first thing in the morning.