I have nothing to say

Yet I wish to write so much.

I have been reading a delightfully pedestrian Cinderella-story that is so ordinary and yet just vibrates with intensity. Pathos, angst, true love...everything short of pirates. No I will not share it unless specifically requested, simply because I wish to tempt fate and see if anyone reads me. Which I doubt. And I'm ok with that.

I should be grateful for the boredom because usually when things are not boring they are very, very bad.

I do so want something to spice up my life in a non tragic fashion. And with today's headlines I feel like I am tempting fate and setting indiscretions in digital print.

But to feel...anything, really, besides the grim slog and toil of daily monotony. To feel passionate about something again. I swear I wouldn't take it for granted.

Bring me to life. I dare you.

ah, God

This is it, the last humiliation: the recognition that I am, in fact, that worst of all stereotypes--the bored housewife. The shame, the ignomy.

Copy of a letter, verbatim

Dear Virgina Public School of Middleness:

Please excuse the absence of my daughter, INSERT NAME HERE, from her absence from school yesterday. She and I both suffered a relapse from the same vicious stomach bug that kept her from school last week. I have sternly instructed her to: bathe in hand sanitizer between classes; not touch anything; not breathe on anyone; and in general do whatever possible to contain this plague from leaving our house.

If you have any questions, please feel free to call me at home ((757)LVA-MSSG) or use my cell number ((757-ATT-SUXX.) It will be welcome break from pickling myself in Lysol while sterilizing the house, the car, and the family dogs.

Sincerely yours,
A VIRGINIAN HOUSEWIFE.

*** *** *** ***

I figure the admins must read dozens of these letters daily. They deserve to be either entertained or shocked out of their complacency every now and again.

~AVH~

Royalty is Nothing But Care

The title is a quote ascribed to Henry VI who spent a great deal of his kingship in captivity, and was in fact executed after his deposition.

Across the land, maids and maidens awoke early to watch the royal wedding of the now Duke and Duchess of Cambridge. And across the land, men moaned in sympathy for one Virginian Husband, who incorrectly likened the Duchess's wedding gown to the one his own bride wore, when in fact it was more like his brother's wife's gown.

Aw, that's gonna cost ya, mate.

Marital faux pas aside, this Virginian Housewife wishes all blessings and happiness on the new couple. May their relationship be more stable than the last pair that were wed so auspiciously but ended so sordidly.

Stormy Weather

Cloudy, cranky skies in my corner of Virginia today.

And it's looking like it might rain outside as well.

I have four children. Four, because my husband and I only have two hands a piece so any more offspring and we'd have some free-ranging, which doesn't make me very comfortable.  They are stair steppers, as the saying goes. This is nice because we got the diaper business over all at once.

However, it does make for a protracted slog through adolescence. Three daughters, one son. that means out of every month, only one week has the potential (and only the potential) of not being driven by hormones. As I am the mother, I have reserved the right to be as hormonal as I like, when I like. I keep it together admirably well, except for when I don't.

The ten-year-old daughter is my current headache. She is, ah, a sensitive child. "Sensitive," of course, is code for "being apt to cry, be moody, and sulk when the urge strikes." She doesn't throw scenes as much as have three-act plays, all created and directed by the leading diva, herself. This is compounded by the fact that she can be hyper-responsible for her age, so the yawings of her emotional barometer can give all of us whiplash.

Maiden Voyage

I would have entitled this "The Sexual Adventures of a Virginian Housewife" but let's face it, I'd most likely attract followers with definite fetishes and even they would be disappointed very quickly. My sexual escapades are very much like Ravel's Bolero: interesting, stimulating, but ultimately repetitive. I am not a "Desperate" Virginian Housewife. A lonely, isolated one, perhaps, but never desperate.

However, as I have no true girlfriends to dish and giggle with, this blog will stand as a virtual substitute.

Thoughts of the day:

It is said that all artists are ultimately narcissists. If this is true, I posit that being the lover of an artist is the consummate narcissist, because in every painting, every line, every note, s/he seeks to find their reflection. It is good for my soul that I am married to such a practical man, who is grounded in fact rather than fancy.

If you believe that thought has nothing to do with sex, you are like my husband. If you are like me, you might think otherwise. *Throws the cover back over the Looking Glass*