Our clothes and towels all smell like sour dog puke – something about leaving them in the washing machine too long.
It turns out I'm not as bad of a cook as I thought, the oven just needs to be cleaned and then the smoke alarms won't go off every time I cook.
I had no idea mold could come in pretty shades of pink.
I've cleaned the fridge out twice and it still smells so bad I woke up when Matt had his midnight snack, not from the noise but from the smell.
So I've managed to create the ambiance of a meth freak without any of the perks like energy, weight loss or feeling like I could take on the world.
I share this with you not to mortify Matt, or my parents – but as a preface to the announcement that I am about to take on a job I am totally unqualified for.
As this current project of mine wraps up, I am tucking away my AP Stylebook and interview pads and taking on the task of being a stay-at-home mama, who writes in the margins of her life until Sam is older.
More about what lead to this choice later, but after rounds of conversations and complete chaos around here we decided that until we can afford to hire that maid, chef and parent clone nanny, one of us needs to stay home.
In no way do I feel I drew the short stick, I'm totally excited about staying home with Sam and getting to parent him completely based on our values. What I'm totally stressed out about is the "homemaking" aspect of the gig.
The fastest way for my mom to get me off the phone is to ask me, "What are you having for dinner?" Especially when I'm just trying to figure out breakfast.
I recently sent this in an e-mail to a friend who was bringing an important guest over after a fancy meal in town: "use the bathroom at Cuvee, tell S. too, cuz ours is gross."
I mean, that's a good friend you can say that too, but still.
Don't worry, I'll still be taking notes along the way. I was planning to call my memoir of my life as a half-assed housewife something like "Diary of an Unlikely Housewife" but that's taken.