Simon spent some time yesterday diddling his beloved stereo system, and when he was done he visited some of his music. Wellll, I say music. At one point he put on "Winter was hard" by the Kronos Quartet. After listening to a few tracks, I said "Winter was hard. It was soooo fucking hard we had to sell our music and play this shit." When the baby started to cry, Simon gave in and turned it down a bit. To be fair, I'm sure that if I were in the mood, and the children were in bed, and I had a really, really large glass of wine, I could get into it.
Do you read Whoopee? I love reading her because my mental picture of her house resembles the actual view of my house. Usually when I read a blog I picture the author's living space as much spiffier than my own. Like, if the internet is a zoo, and each blog is an exhibit, than most of the blogs I read remind me of the Lion cage, maybe, with big beautiful cats lounging around a tasteful arrangement of grasses and rocks. My household would be the monkey cage, complete with random toys strewn around and primates scratching their nethers. All I can say in our defense is that we usually wear pants and never fling poo. Boogers, wet dishrags, and used diapers, yes. Poo, no.
I'm still trying to get caught up on the mess we made whilst we were ill, without getting behind on the mess we're making now. I've said it before and I'll say it again- staying on top of the housework is like staying on top of a big ball. Once you start to lose it, the whole thing goes sideways like THAT and it's completely gone. And when you're trying to get back up you have to pull it all together at once. At least, that's the way it feels to me.
Leaving you with the mental picture of herself as a monkey in a tutu balancing on a large ball whilst holding a dirty diaper and scratching her ass,