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This entry is wearing rubber gloves and holding a feather duster

I am, at this very moment, avoiding housework.

I hate that term. Housework. Having a house IS work. They don’t tell you that shit when you’re signing eight million pieces of paper and giving you a free pen. Nope. They won’t tell you about how the weeds grow up in the cracks of the driveway and no one in their right mind will believe that it’s a new form of driveway art and didn’t you see Martha do a segment on Wednesday’s show? They don’t tell you about the gutters that need to be cleaned out and how your neighbor’s tree shits leaves into it every fall and spinner seeds into it every spring and somehow those seeds and leaves turn into this black slimey goo that might just be sentient or possibly the black oil stuff from The X-Files. And they don’t tell you about how freaking earwigs will take over your basement and hold your entire delicate washables collection hostage until you bring them many damp sponges that they may use for earwig condos.

Right now, I should be tidying up the bedroom. I think I might need a rake. It’s embarrassing. The corners where the wastebaskets reside are just sloping mounds of Kleenex and empty Dasani bottles. Maybe I should get bigger wastebaskets. Or empty them more than once a season.

It’s not my fault. Well, it is. It’s my fault that I refuse to measure my life and self-worth by how clean my house is or how small my ass is. Sure, I’m engaging in some body modification but it’s not because I think I’m any less worthy than a thin girl. There’s a different motivation there.

And honestly, I’m worth a clean bedroom. I’m going to hire a cleaning service, but first I must get the house reasonable. I’m not low enough to say ‘Hi, nice to meet you, thanks for coming by to clean. Here’s our ski slope of used Kleenex and the shower where the shower gnomes leave me messages using hair.’ Thus, guilty pre-cleaning.

It’s 93 degrees out today and perfect. Not terribly humid. Just perfect. Esteban and I stopped at the Snooty Deli this morning for breakfast. He had vetoed my plea for pancakes and countered with Vegetarian $8 Sandwich. Probably one of the few things I’d give up pancakes for. Then we went over to Ward and June’s house to frolic for a few hours in the pool, sipping strawberry margaritas. The pool is honestly the biggest housework offender. Esteban uses it regularly as a distraction whenever I begin to voice discontent with the state of the home.

Is it wrong that I’ve begun to fantasize about moving to a very small home in the country? Alone? No pets. No one to clean up after. No clutter. I actually have the furnishings even picked out. It would be very simple, much like the cover of Living or Real Simple. Lots of old tables with layers of white and pastel paint showing through. White curtains. Everything white. Maybe a hammock outside. And the finest electronics and broadband. It’s my fantasy, I can be as eclectic as I want to be. It’s probably a bad thing that I don’t imagine Esteban there, but honestly, he’s so messy and I never see him anyway. Maybe he could be there, but there would be a stipulation that it is my goofy country house and he would not be allowed to litter. In reality, I’d need him to set up my home theatre system anyway. Wires make me hyperventillate.

We swam for a while, and then Esteban left for his weekly dork diversion with the guys. I swam for a bit more, but I was wearing my annoying suit and felt like my boobs were falling out every time I swam laps underwater. I left about a half hour later, citing housework, then drove out on the country roads, windows open, singing along with Republica and Salt N Pepa, until my hair dried from the hot wind. I wanted to just keep driving, wanted to go up to Door County where the sweet cherries are in season and score a lovely quart of reddish black summer-tasting mouth orgasms, but house guilt prevailed. It was a tough choice. Touch and go for about ten minutes, especially when ‘Dreams’ by the Cranberries came on. That song should be played at the beginning of every road trip. It just smacks of driving fast through waving fields toward blue stretches of unbroken sky.

By the way’ ‘Push It’ is one of the best songs ever. Honestly. Oooh baby BABY! Buh Baby BABY! You come and give me a kiss. Bettuh make it fast or else I’m gonna get pissed. It just doesn’t get more profound than that, now does it?

I had this entire plan to write an entry about the night that I met Esteban. This weekend is the 12th anniversary of that night, but it seems to be too much effort. Summer slackerdom. That’s what it’s all about. Don’t be listening to that Hokey Pokey shit’ they don’t know a damned thing.

Gah. I should go clean. GD housework.


You know, you can almost set a clock by my bitching about the housework. Every 28 days. It’s amazing how that works. Bah.

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