I refuse to cut the crusts off of a sandwich. I let them stay on the plate, but I am not going to help with process.
She used to like crusts.
She used to like cheese. We are going through an "I don't like cheese" phase. She still like pizza and cheese roll ups and tacos. I guess because they aren't straight up cheese. I know she still likes cheese, but sometimes being difficult gets more attention.
She hates eggs. Loves quiche. If anyone tells her that quiche is eggs, I'll kick them in the shins.
Usually I'm so happy that someone is eating that I'll let the little things slide. But I'm not cutting the crusts off.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
What is Real?
Real Housewives my butt. I will admit that I watch the shows. Call them a guilty pleasure, call it escapism. And now that I’ve written about it, I can call it research. Either way, I watch the shows, and undoubtedly end up feeling uber-frumpy by comparison. I consider myself a housewife. I know Stay at Home Mom might be more PC, but really mom is only part of my job. Mom is more important, but I can’t be a good mom without a house that is in order and being a good wife makes me a better mom. So Housewife isn’t demeaning to me, it’s encompassing.
Regardless, these women and I have absolutely nothing in common. I am astonished at how little we see them with their kids. They don’t “work” but they have nannies. Plural. I have me. Singular. None of them do any actual cleaning for themselves and I'm guessing they don't have to fold laundry. Laundry is the bane of my existence. They have assistants. After the nanny, housekeeper, cook and landscaper, you still need an assistant? I'm just happy we aren't living on assistance.
Not to mention that their lives are full of drama. Knock-down, drag-out fights with their “friends” and family feuds that rival the Montagues and Capulets seem to the norm. I’m happy to report that at the ripe old age of 33, my life is fairly drama free. Any toxic friends are long gone or relegated to acquaintances that I can hide on Facebook. My family drama is still there, but we are at a non-confrontational standstill, so the only drama left is me venting to my poor husband about it. I'm happy when I have time to shower in a day, so time to devote to drama is something I gave up back in college.
Here are the rest of my observations about these “Real” women that I hold issue with:
They wear white clothing. And it stays white.
They wear lots of jewelry and never seem to be missing as much as an earring.
They get their hair done, nails done and go to the spa, in the same week. And it's a normal week.
They wear clothes that need dry cleaning or ironing.
Their purse collections are worth more than my mortgage. Jeans that cost more than my monthly grocery budget.
Their cars don’t seem to be full of sippy cups, dried French fries and there are no visible crayon scribbles or stickers on the windows.
They throw childrens’ birthday parties that cost more than my wedding. Much, much more.
They go on dates with their husbands. Elaborate and often.
They all have plenty of time to workout and maintain a perfect figure. And if they don’t, they take a trip to their personal plastic surgeon for a fix up.
Their houses are spotless showrooms. Perfectly decorated and clean. And clean. Did I say clean?
And while sometimes those things seem like THE dream. I know how hollow they are. A mommy without stains is one who isn’t playing on the floor. A car without mess is one that isn’t driving the kids to fun activities. A party without personal touches and a face covered in cake is sterile. And a house without some messes, toys on the floor and happy noises is not a Home.
So I think I’ll stick with my version of Real. The one where I throw my hair in a ponytail and put on my uniform of clean (mostly) and cheap (very) tank top and jeans. Where the kids and I spend a good chunk of our day on the move and the car takes a beating. Where my canvas purse/diaper bag is filled with 3,926 things for the kids(diapers, wipes, snacks, juice, crayons, sunscreen, toys etc)and 3 things for me (wallet, phone and chapstick). Planning playdates, presents and parties that are joyously homemade. And a house that is spilling over with toys, to-do’s, messes, laundry, life and love. Real indeed.
Regardless, these women and I have absolutely nothing in common. I am astonished at how little we see them with their kids. They don’t “work” but they have nannies. Plural. I have me. Singular. None of them do any actual cleaning for themselves and I'm guessing they don't have to fold laundry. Laundry is the bane of my existence. They have assistants. After the nanny, housekeeper, cook and landscaper, you still need an assistant? I'm just happy we aren't living on assistance.
Not to mention that their lives are full of drama. Knock-down, drag-out fights with their “friends” and family feuds that rival the Montagues and Capulets seem to the norm. I’m happy to report that at the ripe old age of 33, my life is fairly drama free. Any toxic friends are long gone or relegated to acquaintances that I can hide on Facebook. My family drama is still there, but we are at a non-confrontational standstill, so the only drama left is me venting to my poor husband about it. I'm happy when I have time to shower in a day, so time to devote to drama is something I gave up back in college.
Here are the rest of my observations about these “Real” women that I hold issue with:
They wear white clothing. And it stays white.
They wear lots of jewelry and never seem to be missing as much as an earring.
They get their hair done, nails done and go to the spa, in the same week. And it's a normal week.
They wear clothes that need dry cleaning or ironing.
Their purse collections are worth more than my mortgage. Jeans that cost more than my monthly grocery budget.
Their cars don’t seem to be full of sippy cups, dried French fries and there are no visible crayon scribbles or stickers on the windows.
They throw childrens’ birthday parties that cost more than my wedding. Much, much more.
They go on dates with their husbands. Elaborate and often.
They all have plenty of time to workout and maintain a perfect figure. And if they don’t, they take a trip to their personal plastic surgeon for a fix up.
Their houses are spotless showrooms. Perfectly decorated and clean. And clean. Did I say clean?
And while sometimes those things seem like THE dream. I know how hollow they are. A mommy without stains is one who isn’t playing on the floor. A car without mess is one that isn’t driving the kids to fun activities. A party without personal touches and a face covered in cake is sterile. And a house without some messes, toys on the floor and happy noises is not a Home.
So I think I’ll stick with my version of Real. The one where I throw my hair in a ponytail and put on my uniform of clean (mostly) and cheap (very) tank top and jeans. Where the kids and I spend a good chunk of our day on the move and the car takes a beating. Where my canvas purse/diaper bag is filled with 3,926 things for the kids(diapers, wipes, snacks, juice, crayons, sunscreen, toys etc)and 3 things for me (wallet, phone and chapstick). Planning playdates, presents and parties that are joyously homemade. And a house that is spilling over with toys, to-do’s, messes, laundry, life and love. Real indeed.
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