I shared this tidbit of information with Cathi recently as we traded "woe is me" stories about being a single parent. Of course she always wins because she has one more kid than me and they're all pretty young, PLUS she has a dog. I can't compete.
Still, we both agreed that we need wives.
If it weren't for the fact that she's married to life in Massachusetts and I, well, I'm a die hard NYer, we could be each other's wife. It would be perfect: I'd cook and she'd wash dishes. She'd wash the clothes and clean the house and I'd be in charge of all five kids, plus still freelance from home. She'd obviously be the main breadwinner, and every night she'd come home to perfectly behaved children and a hot home-cooked meal.
Then, after we'd tuck the babies in at night, we'd hire a sitter to stay in while we partied like it was 1999. With cops. Or firemen. Or sailors. YUM!
Perfection.
In the meantime, my kitchen looked like this all week:
Cathi... hurry up and marry me already... there was a strange smell in my sink and I was afraid to go and see what it was... the stench was too strong, though, and my OCD about strange smells wouldn't let me sleep.
I finally gave in and, um, you don't want to know what I found but it's gone now. I had to actually don those stupid yellow gloves and turn on the water and WASH DISHES. BY MYSELF. On Lazy Sunday! It's just not fair!
See:
If you value our friendship, you won't subject me to these atrocities any longer. These hands were born to type, not wash dishes like some lowly
*smooches...with the distinct feeling that my grandmother is turning over in her tomb because I posted pics of my dirty kitchen*
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sorry, grandma! but in my defense... I just didn't feel like washing them...
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Title courtesy of Ayo, "Life is Real"
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