On My Continuing Difficulties With Housewifely Duties

Still with me despite my inevitable blogging silences? Thank you. You may remember the fascinating August 14 post about getting my son a new dresser after his Pottery Barn Kids one broke. Hey, I write what I know. Long story short, the boy STILL doesn't have a new dresser, despite all the good advice I received in comments. A Facebook friend suggested Stanley Young American, but my son rejected the reasonably priced floor model I found. For some reason, he has taken a keen interest in this new furniture, which mainly translates as a surly pubescent rejection of any viable option.

During the search, we desperately set foot in Ikea for the first time in 10 years, ignoring vociferous pre-teen objections. They didn't have the dresser we were going to buy, which was ok since I was ambivalent about it anyway. We did emerge with a chair, our first Ikea purchase. I don't know what came over me. I sat down in the floor model, found it so comfortable and the price so cheap, that before I knew what was happening, it was paid for and in the trunk of the Ford Focus.

I also need a new slipcover for the 10-year-old couch

Crookshanks the cat really likes it. Hopefully, she won't pee on it. That's what happened to the chair that used to be there. Or poop on it. I love her, but her toilet habits are worse than GG Allin's.

I spend a lot of time cleaning up the bodily emissions of C and her offspring, Fang and Clawed, and speaking of house cleaning, I am getting ready to admit defeat. About six months ago, I dismissed my cleaners and attempted to live a martyr-like cleaner-free existence. I am not the worst housekeeper in the world; dishes are promptly washed, laundry is done, the trash is set out in a timely manner. I'll vacuum, but I have to admit that dusting is spotty. (I recently noticed that the walls were dusty; I didn't even know that walls needed dusting.) Scrubbing tubs and toilets makes me hate myself and the world. I thought it would be good for my kids to have household responsibilities; they beg to differ.

The house has three stories, not including a disgusting unfinished basement. Two messy kids, three shedding cats, a husband who doesn't notice dirt. I am ALWAYS cleaning, but the house never has that freshly-cleaned feeling. I know this makes me sound like a privileged asshole, but here goes: life without cleaning help has turned me into a gigantic bitch. Just ask the staff over at the middle school, who received a visit from me after they messed up my son's schedule. A cleaner is coming over at noon to see my house before she agrees to take on the job.

I have to tidy up so she isn't scared off.


P.S. Please check out my interview with Andrea Linett on xojane. And I am also writing about family entertainment for ew.com.