Wednesday, March 23, 2011

BOOK ONE (Part 8 con't) wine, Banksy, Disney, sex

To the gods, or crazy luck, it must be ascribed that my constitution has survived this manner of housewifery so long; that I never got entangled with a lawnmower man nor a Bradley, and also returned from those (hideously termed) "play dates" with the kids more or less undamaged, yet with my powerful aversion to "Disney"--or its symbolic resonance-- intact;

I think Banksy has it about right

also, that although Roger and I frequently had arguments on "Who're more important to society? Poets or Engineers?", I never pushed things to the point of tossing personal objects out of windows. Furthermore, that on occasions when I thought of buying boxes of chocolate-covered almonds from kids canvassing at the door, I was never told that I couldn't buy at least a couple; and know that next week it may well be my kids at other people's doors.

I must thank the gods for the crazy luck for such a husband as mine (who supports my erratic obsessions), so loving, green-ish eyed and able to cook, so able to get me to have sex; for an unfailing supply of music teachers and coaches for our boys; and for well-timed glasses of wine prescribed for me by his intuition of varying degrees of need--especially in cases of ambitious gardening, and late assignments I've helped the boys complete, (as happens at least once a term).

Lastly, that with all my addiction to eating well I was yet preserved from either falling prey to needing "fat pants" or spending all my time pouring over cookbooks and not grinding away at my own desk.

For all these good things (à la Martha) and otherwise, a housewife needs the help of allies, decent wine, a room of her own, and a powerful sense of humour.

Among those who don't do yoga but is tempted.

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