Feast, famine, fuck it.

I was so proud of myself Wednesday. I made a to-do list in my happy-green little planner (which is the first one I've bought that I really use, when I remember) and by the end of the housewife day (they officially end when the kids come home from school), I had done:
7 loads of laundry, (check!)
cleaned the kitchen (check!)
vacuumed (check!)
swept the porches and the sidewalks(check!)
watered the garden (check!)
mopped the kitchen (check!)
And cooked a not-too-shabby dinner.

And did I feel good about my productivity? Yes, yes I did. Smug? Maybe. Feeling unfuckingstoppable? You betcha. Have an extra glass of wine as a reward? Well, if you insist.
I even made a list for the next day; the stuff I didn't get to on Wednesday.
Thursday:
Dust and polish
Bathroom
Mop big scary room downstairs.

Yeah, notice all the checks there? Me neither. Apparently, all I've got in me is one big day. Yesterday, I just...couldn't...do it. Still had that extra glass of wine, tho, as a balm to soothe the disappointed ego.
It's just too easy to sit right here. Clicking things, taking umpteen pictures of myself and finally settling on an almost-cute one. I hope nobody notices that my shirt was a little low-cut and pulled over. Call me Elaine. But it's a good pic, and that just doesn't happen very often. Also did some major facebooking, pretended to research something for my book, stalked the artist Wyland for a while, made a horrible loaf of bread, and that's about it.
And today? Suffice it to say my girlfriends came over this morning. Chuh, like I"m going to do anything other than my hair.
Ding! Must go. Housewife day is over.