Thursday, September 13, 2012

The Lament of the "Fantastically Boring" Blogger

At 3:12 am
"Alexandra" left me a comment:
"Holy shit, your blog is fantastically boring."
I found it three hours later
Whilst my son's waffles were in the toaster
And coffee was brewing.
Fantastically boring stuff was happening
Of which I should not be writing.
Apparently I can't help myself
Because here I go again.
The thing is, I think she is right--

if unnecessarily mean. 
Alexandra's google profile says she is a suburban bohemian in her 30's
She left her comment from Greenwich
After 4 page views.

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

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