This morning, the 'chick was watching 'Leave It To Beaver' and it occurred to her that June Cleaver dressed nicer to clean the house than the 'chick does to go to work.
If you'll excuse Auntie Roadchick, she is going to slip into a dress and some heels and clean the oven.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Reality Check
Posted by Roadchick at 9:18 AM
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9 comments:
Oh yeah, me too. BRB.
You clean your oven? Home ownership sounds so permanent. I usually move out when the apartment oven gets unusable.
Witch: It sounded good at the time.
Fringes: No ovens were actually cleaned during the writing of this post.
Quick Chick! drink a shot of tequila and take 3 tylenol. go straight to bed. don't turn on the tv. go to sleep.
this too shall pass...
Heather: It was so . . . scary. A little nap will help.
I have on heels and blue jeans today. I think it's a start, right?
I remember the first time that I cleaned an oven. I was 19 and enjoying my very first apartment. The Most Handsome Goth I'd Ever Seen was coming over for dinner and I wanted to impress him. Taking a page from my mother's book (she is immaculate and, in her youth, vacuumed in designer outfits) I scoured my apartment and approached my stove (it had only seen tuna bake and left over pizza up until this point) with a can of Easy Off. I was wearing my Most Foul Sweat pants and a tee shirt with more holes in it than Swiss cheese. I sprayed and sprayed and sprayed, and scoured and scrubbed and sprayed and scoured and scrubbed. "Must get ten year's of other tenant's crud off this oven; must make it immaculate so I can put a chicken in." (Bear in mind that the chicken cost me two hour's wages!)
I recall scrubbing my heart out, with most of my torso nearly crammed into the oven and I battled the layers of grease. I also recall someone grabbing me firmly from the shoulders and hauling me out of the oven, setting me on the floor, and slapping my face. It was The Most Handsome Goth I'd Ever Seen, come to dinner. I had been overcome by the fumes and passed out, and the sweet man broke my kitchen window because he thought I was so disgusted by the concept of having to feed him that I tried to take my own life. There I was, looking horrid, and no dinner ready.
The moral of this story: Autrice refuses to own an oven that is not self-cleaning.
Susan: Absolutely. And the 'chick lied - she cannot wear heels for awhile because she is having foot problems. Sigh. Wear pretty, red ones, ok?
Autrice: That is the Best. Oven. Story. EVER. You win. The 'chick gives up.
Leave it to Beaver confession:
I cried when Hugh Beaumont (Ward) died. He was kind of an ass, but I always thought he was a handsome, loving TV dad. Man. What the hell was I thinking?! And I always had a crush on Wally. In my teens, I thought I would love to have corrupted him by enticing him to drink a beer. I still think he's hot in those reruns, only now I'm old enough to be Wally's MOM.
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