Was to be a Kenwood Housewife.
Okay, so I stole the line from a personals ad that used to run in Lavender Magazine over and over again until it had either a) overrun it’s welcome, or b) been fulfilled.
I imagine my day would begin with me awaking to my alarm, the husband out of town on some important business trip. It’s 7:00. Instead I have the two little ones – some docile breed of terrier or miniature species, no doubt. They lick my face and fight over me to let them out.
The sun is flowing in through the wooden blinds. My room is bright white. The comforter, the carpet, the walls, the furniture (with polished nickel accents). I all but hop out of bed in eager anticipation of exciting happenings the day is sure to bring. Tinkle stop in the bathroom – twin urinals installed with light-sensing flushing systems. Why doesn’t everyone have these? Does anyone really want to touch their toilet?
Down the hall and a quick flight of steps down to the kitchen where my happy pills, vitamins and supplements are stored. The dogs at my heels. One should never keep their meds in the bathroom – the humidity can cause them to prematurely break down (and that’s what they’re supposed to keep you from doing!). Down them with fresh pulp-free OJ. Open the patio door to the fenced in yard for the dogs to do their deeds.
Stop by the front door to grab the Times off the stoop. Prepare a little yogurt and fruit for me, and fill the dogs’ bowls. Sit down with my blackberry and paper at the kitchen table, mentally preparing myself for the day’s chores. Personal trainer this morning – ugh, it’s legs day again already? Brunch with Sasha, my spiritual adviser, at some new organic joint in Whittier. Stop over in Linden Hills to check out the new antique boutique my friend Monte is opening. Oh yes, and I simply MUST call the travel agent today to plan that trip to Whistler – they book up so quickly. Half-day spa treatment in the the afternoon at JUUT. Cocktails with the gals around six at that place down by the river. Oh, damn, and I’ve got to get in touch with my doctor to check out that new stop-smoking drug, Chantex, or Chantrex or some such pharmasuicidaly-concocted name. Oh and that contractor wanted to come by today to stop in and look at the shower in the master bath to see about putting in a steam generator. I’ll have to call Butch, the handyman, to see if he can come by to let him in. (Hell, if I’m lucky, maybe between the two of them they can get the thing installed this afternoon!)
Shit, and tomorrow I’ve got hypnotherapy, chest and tris, acupuncture in the afternoon (another stop-smoking effort), and that hunky young chiropractor is gonna crack me all up at five before I hit the open house at the at the Fritz’s new loft space in Northeast.
Good lord, who am I kidding? I’m just not cut out for this sort of life. Sometimes I have trouble getting to work in the mornings with Caribou in hand, let alone planning out entire days. These ladies aren’t given the credit they deserve. The next time you see a Channelled-out middle-aged lady illegally park her British roadster to run into the Bibelot shop, stop and thank her for all her hard work keeping the world moving like she does.