I’m sorry; I was just planning on getting out of the blogging world and calling my parents when I happened on a couple of posts that made me go WHAT! Now I tend not to argue with people on their own blog; it is their own opinion. Who am I to say they’re crazy? Then we come to Faemom’s House of Insanity, and I have complete editorial power. (Though I don’t mind if you call me crazy; I believe I’m one foot there with the other on a banana peel.) But I just read some one referring herself to June Clever because she had cookies and milk ready for her kids, which is awesome, but they were from refrigerated dough. And another blogger was extolling the wonderfulness of the book The Hell With ALL That: Loving and Loathing Your Inner Housewife by Caitlin Flanagan.
Ok, first off, you’re not June Clever for baking refrigerated cookie dough. You just aren’t. You can use it to make people believe you are, especially guests, but don’t for a minute believe it. I have bought the refrigerated cookie dough when I’m jonesing for chocolate chip cookies and only need a dozen to get through. I’m freaked out because for a wholesome (yes, I actually used the adjective “wholesome”) activity the other night, the boys and I made cookies from scratch. Add that to the “bone” necklaces I’m making them and some friends for Halloween and that I’m making costumes, I am seriously stepping towards Cleverism. I prefer to be more like Harriet Nelson from Ozzie and Harriet; she had spunk. But I digress, I made cookies from scratch with my boys. Mainly because I didn’t want to turn on the TV and my mom’s copy of Martha had an awesome recipe for cowboy cookies. And they are heavenly. Trust me, the irony of baking cookies from a Martha Stewart magazine is not lost on me.
Next. To Hell With All That is a very bi-polar book, and I planned on making a better post on it because it needs to be written. I haven’t read the book in six months, so I have to reread it to give you all a real gist of the matter. But let me just say while I was nodding in agreement, I started getting angry with the book. Apparently the author puts the everyday housewife crap on a pedestal. I mean like taking out the garbage and vacuuming and taking care of sick kids. Basically all the crap we hate to do, and usually the stuff our husbands take for granted (but I bet some of you have really sweet husbands that think you’re totally a goddess for doing it, that’s just not all of us). Well, it turns out the writer had (and probably still has) a maid and used to have a nanny until her kids went to school. Are you F-ING kidding me? You’re going to tell me to embrace my inner housewife when you have a maid and a nanny? You had some one else to clean up vomit and wax your floors. And I shudder at the term housewife, and I’ll explain in the latter post why she loves it.
Ok, I promised I wouldn’t get in to it until I reread the book, but it is obvious that I need to. So after I finish the one I’m working on, which may take a while because it’s around a thousand pages, give or take a hundred (don’t worry, amazing writer, page turner and all), I’ll reread To Hell with All That and give a full report. I promise I’ll even admit I’m wrong if I like it the second time around. And I have only admitted that twice in my marriage.