Things To Think About . . .
CAUTION: GOOF-OFF ZONE – NO PHYSICAL WORK ALLOWED
ONE RULE: PUT YOUR FEET UP AND RELAX
Every writer needs a time and place to put work aside and procrastinate, to think about important things, to mull over world peace, to study their belly buttons, to lament the extra pounds they added to their hips over the holidays, to decide on which frozen dinner to thaw or to think about how they can talk their husband into hiring a full time cook, laundress and housekeeper. I’m happy to provide such a place for my friends, readers, and complete strangers. The more, the merrier.
Speaking of housework . . . . As time goes on and those of you who don’t know me, get to know me better, you’ll find that I hate housework, and after 45 years of cooking three meals a day for my family, have come to also hate cooking. (The thing I make best now are reservations.) I know there are those of you out there who love cooking and don’t mind following a humming machine mindlessly around a carpet or washing a dog’s nose prints off the sliding glass doors. I respect you for your choices. I just don’t share them.
My husband recently told me that he heard on a talk radio station that women who do housework live longer. If that were true, my mother should have lived to the ripe old age of 789. She was a superior housekeeper . . . beyond compare. I grew up in a house where meals hit the dining room table at precisely 7, 12 and 5 everyday and you could eat off the floors. (In all fairness, you could eat off mine, too. You are however, risking ptomaine poisoning.) For many years after I married my husband, I tried to emulate her. And I did for a long, long time. This is not an easy task with three children and a husband who don’t know the meaning of "pick it up and put it away" or "wipe it up after you spill it"or "why not put your dirty clothes in the hamper so we can all enjoy the new bedroom carpeting that used the money earmarked for my vacation in Hawaii?"
Recently, I decided that I’d had enough of the Super Mom syndrom. It occurred to me that as long as my husband gets to eat, whether or not I spend 4 hours in the kitchen preparing it is not going to affect his appetite. He enjoys pre-cooked chicken as much as he ever did the chicken I slaved over. I also discovered that, if I buy him two dozen pairs of underwear, I will only have to wash clothes every other week instead of twice a week. And, since he put the dirty clothes on the floor, it’s something he must enjoy seeing and far be it from me to deprive him of his little pleasures in life.
I’m not sure that the above is of any interest to anyone but me, but if it is, feel free to chime in and add to the discussion. I will try to return here at least once a week, but right now I’m on deadline for my next Silhouette Romantic Suspense, JUDGEMENT IN FIRE, so I may not make it back here on a regular basis, but feel free to talk amongst yourselves while I’m gone.
As always,
Blessings and Happy Reading!
Elizabeth
ONE RULE: PUT YOUR FEET UP AND RELAX
Every writer needs a time and place to put work aside and procrastinate, to think about important things, to mull over world peace, to study their belly buttons, to lament the extra pounds they added to their hips over the holidays, to decide on which frozen dinner to thaw or to think about how they can talk their husband into hiring a full time cook, laundress and housekeeper. I’m happy to provide such a place for my friends, readers, and complete strangers. The more, the merrier.
Speaking of housework . . . . As time goes on and those of you who don’t know me, get to know me better, you’ll find that I hate housework, and after 45 years of cooking three meals a day for my family, have come to also hate cooking. (The thing I make best now are reservations.) I know there are those of you out there who love cooking and don’t mind following a humming machine mindlessly around a carpet or washing a dog’s nose prints off the sliding glass doors. I respect you for your choices. I just don’t share them.
My husband recently told me that he heard on a talk radio station that women who do housework live longer. If that were true, my mother should have lived to the ripe old age of 789. She was a superior housekeeper . . . beyond compare. I grew up in a house where meals hit the dining room table at precisely 7, 12 and 5 everyday and you could eat off the floors. (In all fairness, you could eat off mine, too. You are however, risking ptomaine poisoning.) For many years after I married my husband, I tried to emulate her. And I did for a long, long time. This is not an easy task with three children and a husband who don’t know the meaning of "pick it up and put it away" or "wipe it up after you spill it"or "why not put your dirty clothes in the hamper so we can all enjoy the new bedroom carpeting that used the money earmarked for my vacation in Hawaii?"
Recently, I decided that I’d had enough of the Super Mom syndrom. It occurred to me that as long as my husband gets to eat, whether or not I spend 4 hours in the kitchen preparing it is not going to affect his appetite. He enjoys pre-cooked chicken as much as he ever did the chicken I slaved over. I also discovered that, if I buy him two dozen pairs of underwear, I will only have to wash clothes every other week instead of twice a week. And, since he put the dirty clothes on the floor, it’s something he must enjoy seeing and far be it from me to deprive him of his little pleasures in life.
I’m not sure that the above is of any interest to anyone but me, but if it is, feel free to chime in and add to the discussion. I will try to return here at least once a week, but right now I’m on deadline for my next Silhouette Romantic Suspense, JUDGEMENT IN FIRE, so I may not make it back here on a regular basis, but feel free to talk amongst yourselves while I’m gone.
As always,
Blessings and Happy Reading!
Elizabeth
posted by Elizabeth Sinclair at
12:26 PM
2 Comments
