No Kinda Homemaker

When my husband and I went on our honeymoon, my mom surprised us by getting our condo professionally cleaned while we were gone.  It was very kind of her, but I have a sneaking suspicion she was trying to fool Chad into thinking I was good homemaker.

We walked in fresh off the plane and I didn’t immediately notice.  Sure, I thought the place looked clean, but I figured it was because neither we nor the dogs had been there to kick up our dust or dog hair.  It took me until I got into the kitchen and looked into the sink.  I had never seen a sink shine so brightly.  After I figured out what happened and called my mom, I was sold on a good housecleaning.

But alas, one move and five years later, I still couldn’t bring myself to pay for it (little known fact; I’m as cheap as my husband, he just talks about it more).

Finally, with baby 2 on the way, I pulled the trigger and contacted a housekeeper.  For $125 I could have that gleaming sink once more.  And I did. For approximately 27 minutes I had clean floors and surfaces and a beautiful sink (Why 27 minutes? Because, well, kids).  A month later, I scheduled her again.  I had 24 minutes of all that and fresh sheets.

But all told, 51 minutes of cleanliness wasn’t enough to justify the two fitty I just slapped down.  That could go toward some hot shoes to put in my dirty closet.  I pulled the plug.  No more housekeeper, at least for now.  It’s just some dust. I got this.

And I thought I was doing a pretty good job.  I really did.  Until I went downstairs and saw this:

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Yep.  A spider’s thread zig zagging from the couch to the table to the ceiling and back again.

The hot shoes will have to wait, cause this girl is no kinda homemaker.  At least I’ll have my sink.

 

Blunt Force

Here’s how the bi-weekly conversation goes:Blog-start

Me: I just, I just don’t know what to do (This is where I throw my hands up). It’s, I just, ugh, (dramatic pause) I don’t know (Bring down the hands, cue the slumped shoulders).

Him: You can’t stop working for 7 years.  That’s the deal (the deal used to be 5, but whatever).

Me: I know, I know!  I don’t even want to necessarily not work, I just want something else (fuming because he doesn’t understand anything at all…).

Authors Note: My current “something else” ideas in no particular order: co-owner omelette restaurant (my husband has the cooking prowess, I’d be the idea woman/designer/greeter); author children’s picture book; owner baby goods store; sommelier/owner wine and dessert restaurant; professional crafter on etsy. 

Him (turning from the TV): You’ve got a freaking blog.  What else do you want?

Me (thinking): You mother —.  You’re supposed to be telling me how you believe in me.  You support my dreams, will travel with me through the unknown. Push me to be my best, etc, etc.

And suddenly, in the middle of my silent rant, a beam of golden sunshine backlit my husband’s big bean.  He had cut through my bullshit once again.

Oh F. He’s right. I did what Acuff taught me to do.  I started. 

And much quicker than he was anticipating, my oft blunt husband was off the hook.