A bored housewife jousts at windmills, pokes fun at everything from leg wax to Miss Manners.
Michael frequently calls me “sweetheart.” It’s a word with three meanings. He once explained his usage to me, but it was unnecessary. I’ve always been able to tell which version of the word he’s using by hearing the tone of his voice. But, in case you ever get to meet us in person, I’ll try …
The way cable television works is a mystery to me. It’s just a bunch of wires and gadgets, and I don’t know which doohickey connects to which thingamajigger to make the pictures come onto the television screen. (I hope I haven’t lost anyone with all the technical terminology I’m using, but I think it’s important …
I’m taking a moment to recover from mowing the front lawn, and am strongly considering astroturf. Pant. Pant. Pant. I still have some weeding to do. By the way, who were the geniuses who decided that the flowers and plants which grow most abundantly are ugly weeds and must be ripped asunder whenever and wherever …
Here’s a poser for you, a moral dilemma, if you will: If a person – me, for example – were to leave the house during the beginnings of a rain shower to pick up some vegan pepperoni for another person – say, Michael, for example – and I were to get caught in a sudden …
Pillow talk: Me – Aw, c’mon. How dumb do you think I am? Michael, purposely ignoring the rhetorical nature of the question – Very dumb. I think I could bring in a rock to replace you. Me, calling his bluff – Oh, yeah? Well, why don’t you go find a rock then? Michael – I …
She pulled four roast chickens from a Kentucky Fried Chicken bag and divvied them up. One for herself, one for her thirteen year old daughter, one for her twelve year old dughter, and one for my sister and me to share. Then the fixin’s were laid out on the table – potatos, gravy, corn, biscuits …