The Toxic Housewife

I don't know what my problem is these last few days.  Well, actually, I do.  My problem is that, by five o'clock, I am done.  Done.  As in: sit down and just eat your dinner, don't ask me any more questions about the mortgage, stop trying to show me that bike video on YouTube, get your feet off the couch, do the dishes like you're supposed to, get your own frickin' pj's DONE.

 (I am totally in love with the parents in the above video.  Yes, I'm that kind of sick puppy.) Bee has been out of town all weekend.  Naturally, this would be the weekend I chose to rent what a friend called "a movie so scary I NEVER need to see that again".

Yes, it looks like he's just watching half-naked ladies; but, really, I'm encouraging hand-eye coordination by teaching him how to use YouTube. My kid's better than your kid, so, naturally, that means I'm a better mom than you. I've seen you in the grocery store, giving in to your girl's red-faced screams for more Frosted Frooty Marshmallow Puffs.  Did you notice my child?  He was the one giggling in the cart while he helped me put broccoli in the basket.  I've watched you on the playground, trying to control your little devil as he threw bark at the other kids.  Did you see my boy?  He was the one happily pretending to cook me french fries and waffles (breakfast of champions!).

Hellooooo, Ladies! I was thinking the other day about how so many of my interpersonal skills weren't learned until college.  Which means it's a wonder I made it through freshman year without any of my fellow dorm-mates bitch-slapping me to death.

Candy-Filled Chocolate Wheels It's just been a week of excess. Pictured above is this week's Cookie Co-Op offering.  And they're great.  How could they not be, when they're basically Life Savers rolled in sugared-dough and wrapped in chocolate -sugared-dough?  Here's the problem:

Here's the good news: we got a fantastic deal on slightly-bruised peaches at our local farmer's market: probably 20 pounds or so for $14. Here's the bad news:

Is this not the most perfect mug for the Toxic Housewife? It was sent to me by one of my ever-thoughtful former college roommates.  One of the people in my life who's always on top of birthdays and 'just because' occasions, unlike Yours Truly.  I'd like to blame my absent-mindedness on my toddler . . . too bad I was this way long before he was conceived.  Plus Awesome Former Roommate also has a young child, and -- obviously -- she's not letting that get in her way.

Another Mr. C original The first time I really camped was with Bee.  Five months into our relationship, we packed his pickup with all his camping gear, a duffel bag filled with wood, and a cooler of food, then set off for a two-night trip north in the mountains. I was a little nervous.  My prior camping experience consisted of a night at the Girl Scouts Council (where there were bathrooms handy . . . because the scout leaders wisely recognized the disaster implicit with three hundred ten-year-old girls in a small space) and a week in college winter-camping for one of my Kinesiology credits.  That would be the week where my period decided to make an unexpected appearance.  In full force. It was a rather strained week.

Part of Bee's business requires him to sell his craft at a farmer's market downtown each weekend. Bee's been doing it for years, and he's a natural-born salesman. He must have the perfect amount of playfulness to attract female customers, mixed with enough harmless innocence to not be a threat to their husbands, topped by sufficient manliness to attract male customers on their own. Business, however, tends to falter as soon as I show up to give Bee a break. Siiigh: perhaps my Toxic Housewifely good looks make the ladies too jealous and the men so bamboozled that they just can't think to actually buy anything. Or maybe it's just that I suck as a salesman.