Before, After and Baby's First Martini

The morning of Day 12 of the 50s Housewife Experiment started very early. At about 5:15 A.M., Patrick decided he could no longer sleep so he might as well get off to work. I know this because he announced it loudly, waking me up.

"You don't have to make my breakfast," he said pitifully, trying to elicit some kind of sympathy for himself.

"Good," I said as I turned over to sleep.

I had only gone to bed about three hours earlier, as working on some freelance copywriting and writing the world's longest blog post had dragged on into the night.

I contemplated getting up as I heard him stomp around, but I figured he was a big boy, that there was plenty in the fridge, and he could fix himself a bowl of cereal in the least.

Later in the day while I was doing the usual cleaning, I got a call from Patrick at work.

"So, am I supposed to come home for lunch or something?"

"What?" I asked.

"Well, there wasn't a packed lunch for me in the fridge. And I'm really hungry because I didn't get breakfast," he moaned.

"Are you serious?" I exclaimed.

"No, just joking," he lied.

"Ok, then. So, what's up?" I asked.

"Uh, nothing. I just called to say hello. Well, I better go. Got work to do," he stammered, knowing I was totally going to blog this conversation.

It's true that I didn't pack him his lunch the night before. I figured I would do it that morning when I was getting his breakfast - not realizing that he was going to want to get up during an hour that vampires would still be out and about. What's sad is that he looked in the fridge, didn't see something prepared just for him so he went without. You have to realize that our fridge is well stocked. There was prepared egg salad, salmon salad, salami, washed lettuce and tomatoes, bread, fruit, cake - all super easy to create a lunch with or just grab and go.

I'm thinking this 50s Housewife Experiment is affecting someone's ability to fend for himself.

I should also tell you now that I didn't make dinner either. Bad housewife, bad! Patrick had plans to go to a friend's place for their monthly poker game and BBQ and since there was so much in the house ready to eat - ahem - I didn't see the sense in making dinner for just me.

Plus, I was full from my liquid lunch! Yesterday my friend Jacquelyn came over with her sweet baby, Ewan, for mid-day martinis and cake. That's the great thing about friends having babies - they're around in the middle of the day and always up for getting drunk.

As you can see, Ewan is a boy after my own heart.

After a joyful visit that involved gossiping, refills and holding Ewan until he made the most terrified cry ("Wait a minute! You're not the blond one! GAH, GET OUT OF MY PERSONAL SPACE!"), mother and son were off, and the 50s Housewife had to drunkenly get on with her tasks.

I tackled something huge yesterday that I had been massively procrastinating on - our cleaning closet. It's a touch ironic that something called a cleaning closet was such an epic dump. The place that holds our washer-dryer and all the cleaning supplies has been a disgusting mess pretty much since the moment we moved in. It wasn't only disorganized, the floor was dirty. Like, when I got everything off the ground, the scene from Raiders of the Lost Arc where Salah says "Why does the floor move?" came immediately to mind. Why? Because there were BUGS ALL OVER. Little carpet beetle larva running around, fat from gorging on dryer lint, the foie gras of dust.

Furthermore, there was mouse poop merrily sprinkled about. That closet had clearly been a place of great fun for the mice. Now that I'm done cleaning the whole thing out and organized it all, I imagine the following conversation is being had behind our walls:

Mouse 1: Did you hear they tore down Club Clozet?

Mouse 2: What?! No! Why would they do that?

Mouse 1: I don't know. Business was good, right?

Mouse 2: There was a line-up every night! That place was an institution.

Mouse 1: They're probably turning it into a parking lot or something.

Mouse 2: Ugh ... Parking lots are killing this place. Man, I met my wife at Club Clozet. I'm really going to miss it.

Mouse 1: Me too, bro. Me too.

Mouse anger aside, the closet is now dreamy and no longer haunts me. Yes!
The second amazing feat I completed was another big one - sewing a button! The 50s housewife has many skills, and sewing is one of them.

Patrick had a pair of pants that he really liked, but the button fell off ... about six months ago. He's literally been without navy pants for that long because neither of us could be fussed to do the tiniest of even-a-monkey-could-do-it sewing jobs.

Well, thanks to the Mrs., those pants are back in action!
When Patrick got in around 2:30 A.M., I was still up as housewife adrenaline was coursing through my body from achieving so much in my day. I very kindly made him a grilled sandwich to help soak up the booze.

"This is more like it," he said between bites.

"Oh?" I asked.

"You faiiiled being a housewife to me this morning with no breakfast or lunchy," he said with a shit-eating grin.

It's only fair that I show you a picture of the before and after of that exchange as well: