this song as it should in all Teen Mom episodes especially when Jenelle is fighting with her Mom and then I squinted my eyes just so as I examined the expiration date on my Nutella jar....". But. And however. Due to my extreme loyalty to reality television AND Clackamas County AND my seven readers, I feel the need to combine these concepts and throw something together here. And even though the titles of these posts are lying (blame it on the al-al-alchohol*) about me being a housewife; I'm really not worried about any sanctions or penalties if I'm discovered by the Internet's Truth Police, mainly because they don't exist but also because of the grand liberties these shows take with the definition of a traditional housewife. Half of the women work (IE: design clothes and/or jewelry via approval of finished products) and the other half are divorced or are engaged/pre-divorced. So technically, being married and staying at home are not hard and fast requirements.
Excellent. Back to the plot line. We're headed to downtown Oregon City for a few errands. This is an important late afternoon Saturday ritual as it buys a good 2-3 hours before starting the weekend chores. The goal (if you time it right) is to arrive back at the house around 6pm. Because, gosh, that's dinner time. And honestly, I'm not going to NOT FEED MY CHILD just because some laundry needs to get done and the floors have 3 day old mac n cheese taking up residence in multiple rooms. Again, timing is everything. Bath follows dinner, then required simultaneous web surfing / tv watching follows bath and before we know it Sunday has arrived with no housework accomplished but the good news is we're having eggs for breakfast so the mac n cheese will have some company. Solutions are everywhere if you're willing to be an overachiever like me.
FYI -- I'm writing this post while watching 'Mob Wives', a brand new VH1 reality television show. Riveted would be an understatement.
How do we keep getting off the subject? It's unlike me to get side tracked. Right, we were headed to downtown Oregon City, home of the almost-Portlanders.
There is a lot to accomplish -- we need to get the car cleaned, window shop for area rugs at Bi-Mart, buy more forks at Goodwill (don't ask), and pick up kitty litter. If you're looking for a commercial break, just kick back and enjoy some pink wine, housewife style. because this ride is not over yet.
I have a lot going on in my life so I can do without the added anxiety of envisioning the good ol' boys in the shop mocking my collection of 'Us Weekly' magazines shoved underneath the driver's seat (that I never read while driving, obviously). Nothing says "Bill me for an extra falangy* while fixing the whatever whatever cooling hose" like a bunch of guilty pleasure chic mags. My husband likes to tell me "Bekah, everything has it's place. So if you always put something back in its place, nothing will ever get messy." Let's have a moment of silence for that statement. Cause I murdered it. Correction: He liked to tell me this before he gave up on 'helping' me become a more organized person. I think he officially gave up about 6 years ago after he accidentally viewed a particularly frightening junk-drawer in my dresser while putting away laundry. No one else stores forks, forgotten Target receipts, and old hair in one place? It's called multi-tasking. Sorry I'm good at stuff, world. It's like he forgot that part of our first date when I carefully explained I'm the PRESIDENT of the "Association of the Self Righteously Disorganized Day Dreamer's Club". It's not easy to get all those lazy procrastinators to vote on election day. Hello!!??
And, I am a firm believer in things having their 'place'. It so happens that the floor of my car is home to a lot of useful things that would otherwise be transient and/or in the bottom of a garbage can. Call me an environmentalist but I'm just not that quick to throw away. For example, on any given day of the week you might peer inside the window of my 2005 Pontiac G6 and wave hello to a few dozen diet-pepsi bottles, un-touched gym clothes, several car chargers (a lot of phones have been lost in this battle, but I like to keep the chargers around in case any of them show up -- one cell hid under the windbreaker attachment thing-y on top of my car for several months and it ended up working fine), old muffins & gold fish crackers (Jackson is a young member of the ASRDDDC), 7,834 extra changes of toddler clothes, lipstick, and a stack of Union literature & authorization cards (it's important to be prepared, because it's always a good day to join the Union).
Nonetheless, today all of these items will either be thrown out, boxed up, or hidden in the glove compartment/trunk/under floor mats. I can be quite the compulsive cleaner when properly motivated. I do not, however, like the quiet observations of fellow Oregon City car-owning residents as they watch me from behind neighboring American Flag murals while I implement my unique tidying methods. These are probably 'regulars' who tediously sanitize their SUVS on Saturday afternoons. I am impressed by the intense lady to my left who whisks out her floor mats and shakes them vigorously in a rapid motion that I can only describe as memorized. Talk about premeditated cleaning. She's probably the President of the County's OCD committee. If I ever get my show, casting her would make for some good TV, as conflict is encouraged and yields higher ratings.
I could probably keep going, as there are about 452 painstaking minutes left to this particular event-filled day. But, as any die-hard fan of Reality TV knows: months are condensed into days and hours into minutes. And most importantly, at the end of an episode, you wonder why you gave up the last half hour of your life for such inconsequential dribble only to find yourself drawn back in the next Tuesday, at the same time, for just a little bit more.
Due to my ongoing duties as President of the aforementioned association, I may not have time to post again by the time next Tuesday rolls around. But if you stay tuned, I'll probably be back with some more dribble dribble later this month. You're welcome, you hopeless addicts.
*that was a rap song, in case, like, you didn't follow my reference.
*final episode of FRIENDS, Phoebe referred to a fictional airplane part,"the falangy" in an attempt to get Rachel off the plan so she could reunite with Ross. That's right.