One thing you may not know about me, is that I like to talk smack.

Of course, I’m not very good at it, so my smack talking is usually pretty lame. But if I drink enough, the urge to talk smack increases. So at our usual poker gatherings, and even at my monthly Bunko game with the suburban neighborhood ladies, I tend to get happy and loose with the, “YOU’RE GOING DOWN, BABY!” “IN YOUR FACE!” and the general merriment of loudly lamenting my own suckiness, if that’s the case.

It’s not so much that I HAVE to win, or hate to lose. I just think that getting all boisterous is part of the fun!

Speaking of suburban neighborhood ladies, I have succumbed to the inevitable and am hosting a Pampered Chef party this weekend. “Pampered Chef?” you wonder. “What’s that?” Well, just think back to when your mom hosted or attended the in-your-living-room tupperware parties where the gals gathered and oohed and aahed over the latest and greatest food storage device, talked with each other and caught up with the various ongoings, and then occasionally bought said food storage devices. Now update it to the present decade, and there you go. I’m thinking about doing my hair up in a beehive, donning an apron, high heels and dishwashing gloves* for the event. If you are reading this and are in the near vicinity, then it is likely that you received an invitation. (If not, then call me! you can come too! come come! dishwashing gloves optional!)

* I actually have dishwashing gloves. They’re pretty neat. I got them because sometime a few years ago I started getting a mysterious rash on my hands after I was working in the kitchen. Once I had them, I was hooked – my favorite time to don them was cleaning out the baby formula bottles. At least when Jocelyn was breast-fed, the breastmilk didn’t smell so bad when you were cleaning the bottles, but damn, formula (especially old formula) is particularly rank. Now, I use them all the time, it’s so nice to not get your hands wet. However, I do have a strange urge to don an apron, apply mascara and wear high heels when I’m wearing them.

Back to Pampered Chef.

I am looking forward to this event with some trepidation. First, it involves people in my home. Not just any people, but neighbor people. This freaks me out. First off, I am not the June Cleaver type, and my household shows it. The friends we’ve known forever know that we’re slobs, and slobs with kids, so I like to think they don’t care or notice, even though they probaby do. But it seems like our neighbor friends always have spic and span houses whenever I drop in with table runners and pictures on the wall and tidy play areas where the toys never venture out or look like a ten children play there instead of just 2 or 3.

I did manage to run the vacuum around the main floor at least once a week when I was at home, and I remember when we lived in our temporary townhouse while waiting for our current house’s completion I had a pretty good weekly routine down for making sure the kitchen floor didn’t develop new and deadly diseases. That routine switched over to “Oh the dog will get it.” and other non-cleaning actions. But even then, and moreso now that I’m working full-time (and the dog is away), our house is in sad shape. It would be even worse if not for James, who always, ALWAYS empties and fills the dishwasher, which is the job I hate most in the world. Even when we do manage to pick up the toys that are scattered EVERYWHERE, they just come out again the very next day, so when I’m tired, it’s very easy to look around, think “what’s the point?” and curl up with a book instead.

But even if all the toys were picked up, floors vacuumed, and surfaces cleared, my house is just lacking that grown up look that the other bunko gals have. Pictures! Fake flower arrangements! Furniture that actually have decorative items on their surfaces other than stacks of unread mail and magazines! Seriously. After attending a few Pampered Chef, Southern Living, Tastefully Simple, Party Lite (that one is candles), and some other parties that I can’t remember the name of, and not to mention Bunko nights, my house just doesn’t match up. I don’t think I have the decorating gene. I am always afraid that what looks nice in the store or magazine is going to look yucky in my home, or won’t turn out to be my style. I think my problem is that I don’t ever really think of myself as grown-up yet. I mean, I do think of myself as grown up, but wasn’t it easier when you could collect all sorts of random shit, stick it up on your wall, and call it good? I’ll have to hunt up a picture of my dorm room. I guess I’d like my house to look nice, but still reflect ME (I guess it could reflect James too) and my taste, and once again, my inner picture of myself isn’t “married 31 year old suburban wife and working mother” but rather, “hip, groovy chick who cares not for responsibility or convention”. And also because I don’t know what I like, rather, I like everything, and thus, I’m afraid if I bring it into my house, it’s just going to look junky instead of sleek and planned.

Well.

This subject is lengthier in this blog than the trepidation is at the upcoming gathering in my head.

The gathering isn’t in my head. The trepidation is. Just to be clear. Didn’t want that sketchy grammar up there giving you weird images of gatherings in my head. Although if I did hold a gathering in my head, I would want YOU to be there. Won’t you RSVP in the affirmative? I must say, the decorations THERE are very nice. Funky and ecletic, but most of all, ME.

I so feel like running out and dying my hair this color today. I shall try to resist.

That is all for today. Farewell kind viewers! All … six of you, I think. I’m not counting James who is contractually obligated to read what I write, if for no other reason to discovery whether or not I’m pissed at him for something that I can’t bring myself to say to him. If I did count him, that’d be seven.

FAREWELL!