Where to Begin?

I don't want this blog to be a downer. But, I need somewhere to go. Somewhere, completely separate from my world, my reality. Somewhere, I can come and just talk to the universe. Get things off my chest, without worrying about who's reading this, or who will judge me for my deepest darkest thoughts and feelings.

Today has been okay. I got some housework accomplished. I hate housework. More than cats hate dogs. Especially...well...all of it. I avoid it like the plague. And I am married to Ward Cleaver. And believe me, my name ain't June. I grew up in a home where cleanliness was optional. Oh, we bathed, and took care of basic hygienic needs, but it was no big deal, if dirty clothes landed on my bedroom floor for months on end. Basically, I grew up believing that there are more important things in life than cleaning all day.
My husband grew up pretty much the opposite. And he expects me to keep an orderly, well-oiled machine....uh...home.
Have you seen that email going around? The one that shows a Good Housekeeping from 1950? The one that says if you want to keep your husband happy, put on lipstick, having the house sparkling, keep the children quiet, and have the fire going and a hot dinner on the stove when he comes home from a hard day's work at the office?
Yeah, that's my husband. He is the type of man to come home from work, and ask me what I do all day.
Forget that I've been slaving all day, driving kids this way and that, cleaning and pressing his shirts, mopping floors, cooking dinner.
Gag me.
I'll let you in on a little secret. I wait until an hour before he's supposed to get home and make a mad dash to make it look like I've been working hard all day. He can't tell the difference. What's the big deal if I sit down on the couch, watch Oprah and eat bon-bons for a little while every day?

You know, one day, when all of my kids are in school all day, I might go out and and get me one of them fancy job things. Like maybe I could be a secretary, or a department store clerk, or an Avon lady! What a dream!

For the record, I hate Oprah. And bon-bons. And my dream job? Well, it'll never happen to who cares?

Signed,
regular, ordinary, plain old not June