Y'all, it is 8:34 in the morning and there is a goddamed meatloaf in my fridge.
I made it this morning, you know, to have for dinner tonight? So I can just heat it up? And pull it out of the oven in my apron and high heels right as Jason gets home? And then we will talk about his day for awhile before I go out back and shoot myself in the goddamned head? (And then I will chase the head wound with a proper vodka martini, of course.)
Okay, so maybe the morning meatloaf (dirty!) is the extent of my suburban housewifery, and it's probably just a passing novelty stemming from my LOVE and PASSIONATE PASSION for my new kitchen. Oh my lands, my new kitchen. It has more than four cabinets! I have a drawer for my measuring spoons! There's one of those flippy-down things on the sink for storing your sponges! My colander has its own space on a shelf and I can just grab the colander without having to remove the seven or eight mixing bowls stacked inside!
Jesus H. Christ. Right after we moved into our city place I emailed all my friends this hilarious story about how we saw this really drunk woman pee herself on a bench at the bus stop because she didn't think anyone would notice. And now I'm all, "My colander troubles are OVER, y'all!"
(Also, before anyone rushes to congratulate me on my incredible togetherness on having my colander unpacked less than 36 hours after moving in, let me confess that I am wearing a pair of underwear that say Thursday on them because they were the only ones I could find, and I totally found them in a box labeled LIVING ROOM, along with the TiVo and a bottle of olive oil.)
(Why yes, I do have stories about the movers, thank you for asking.)
Anyway, stories and photos will hopefully be sputtering out over the next few days, since I cannot find the stupid USB cable for my camera. (Oldest blogger excuse in the book there, and I confess that when you said it on your blog I probably thought you were lying.) Oh, and when the cable company says they'll be there "between 11 and 2," they really mean someone will show up "between twelveteen and never."
Obviously, we finally do have Internet now, but our wireless router isn't working yet, so I'm typing this on the living room floor, connected directly to the cable modem by the world's shortest ethernet cable. Seriously, it's like this long. (Holds up hands so Internet can see.) Oh, and this CARPET IS GROSS. GROSS CARPET! HATE! But at least I have easy access to my olive oil and panties in here.
(Friendly reminder re: the Amalah Needs Some New Furniture Fund: I wrote this week's Advice Smackdown posts over the weekend, so those have continued on schedule, by the way, and ClubMom will resume at some point today. And we've got a slew of guest contributers over at MamaPop, who are all picking up my extreme slack in awesome form.)