I need some goals

because I have never been so goddamn bored in my entire life. And if the current trend continues, I will be unemployed for an undetermined amount of time, and I simply can’t continue like this. It’s a freaking miracle my husband hasn’t left me. So, goals for tomorrow:

Be out of bed, showered, dressed, and hair and makeup done BEFORE dh gets home from work.
Run to Wal-Mart and pick up a massive load of vinegar, baking soda, empty spray bottles, and lemon/lime juice
Clean with aforementioned vinegar
Cook (healthy) dinner

Now, that doesn’t look too unreasonable, does it? We’ll see how it goes. I’d add exercise in there, but my body is currently in the process of falling apart, so that’ll have to wait until the King figures out how the fuck to put me back together.

Now I’m going to go drug myself to sleep in the mostly-futile attempt to be on a normal sleeping pattern like the rest of the civilized world.


The Dinner Battle

Oh, dinner, how I loathe you. I hate planning meals, I hate making my grocery list, I hate putting groceries away, I hate cooking dinner, I hate cleaning up after dinner. But because of my current “housewife” status this is what is usually required of me.


I am forever looking for ways to make dinner easier to plan and easier to cook. I hate cooking. I don’t find it rewarding in the least, and I hate that if dinner tastes like shit it’s my fault. I’m one of those freaks that could eat the same dinner every night 365 days a year, so varying dinner to keep DH entertained is difficult. And it seems that the more time I have, the less I want to spend it cooking. DH will just scarf it down and be hungry 10 minutes later anyway. There’s no point in cooking with that man around.

Anyway, lately I’ve been trying (trying being the operative word here) to eat healthier foods. And poor DH, with the metabolism of a jack rabbit, is along for the ride because I simply refuse to cook us two separate dinners. Fuck that. I hate cooking one dinner, let alone two. So I just leave the recipe as “serves 4”, and I get one serving, and DH gets the other three. It sort of works. Somewhat. But we’ve been eating a lot of chicken lately, and DH has been bitching more as a result, and I could seriously rip his head off.

I get that he thinks I’m beautiful no matter what, but the point is I’m trying to lose weight here. And DH has never been a pound overweight a day in his life. That man’s idea of a healthy dinner is a steak the size of a large dinner plate. And a beer. And while I get that weight isn’t an issue for him NOW, at SOME point his metabolism HAS to slow down (it has to, right? I don’t think I can afford to feed him at this rate for the rest of our lives), and just because he’s not overweight doesn’t mean he can’t have issues with cholesterol etc. But he doesn’t take me seriously when I try to explain that.

Here’s an example – what he ordered the last time we went to McDonald’s:

Large double quarter pounder with cheese value meal (remember this comes with a large fries)
Dr. Pepper (helllooooooo sugar)
An extra double quarter pounder with cheese
8 chicken nuggets w/sauce
1 McChicken
1 double cheeseburger
and a McFlurry.

And he ate it all. In one sitting. I’m dead. fucking. serious.


Here I am, with my stupid double cheeseburger, that I eat half of, and throw the rest out, and STILL probably gained 5 pounds from those 3 measly bites, and he ate all of that and probably LOST weight from chewing all that food. Really, sometimes I just loathe him. I feel guilty when I get a cookie with my sub from subway, and he falls asleep with his hand in a doritos bag because he can’t make it from dinner one night to breakfast the next morning without getting up and eating.

So he’s going to eat all the fucking chicken I make him, dammit, and he’d better not say one word. Not. one. single. word.

What is the world coming to?!

I realize I JUST finished my first post, and my life is not so exciting that it’s necessary to post every two minutes, but I had to give general cyberspace a warning:


Holy shit. Here I am, innocently searching for an ironic image to use as my blog header, and am instead bombarded by porn. What the hell?! When did housewife becoming synonymous with porn?! My husband must be one disappointed man.

Reluctance at its finest:

…ranting on the internet instead of actually doing anything productive. I am The Reluctant Housewife. I’m a 24 year old housewife who had absolutely no intention whatsoever of becoming a housewife. But alas, this damned recession has royally screwed up the job market, and here I am.

I was a student. I recently graduated from college with a degree in business administration. All my friends and I could talk about in the weeks leading up to graduation was how excited we all were to be done, finally, after endless years of papers, studying, tests, quizzes, presentations, and late night panic-induced Red Bull binges. If somebody had told me in May, in the midst of the hectic end of the quarter, that I would not have a job in September – well, I wouldn’t have believed you. But if I had, I don’t think I could have graduated. I might have just given up right there. Thankfully I didn’t, because I have an empty degree frame that is waiting to be filled.

Enough about that. I miss college, enough that the crazy half of my brain is contemplating returning for my MBA, but that’s on the “we’ll see” list. I graduated, whoop whoop, and have been searching for a job ever since. Luckily I can rely on my husband while I search, and he doesn’t mind too much that in the meantime, I’m stuck at home. Being…that dreaded word…a



I am not cut out for this. For a multitude of reasons. I probably don’t have enough time to get into them all on here, but let’s start with one – laundry. I don’t actually mind doing laundry. It’s the folding it that’s a giant pain in the ass. Most people whine and moan, then do it and get it over with. Not me, oh no. I have a “process”. I have a dirty pile, a clean pile (also on the floor, but I’m not one of those that believes that the floor is inherently covered in germs – I don’t know what y’all are doing on your floors, but mine is perfectly fine for a pile of clothes to sit on), a “worn once but still clean enough to wear again” pile, a pajama pile, and then usually a still-packed suitcase from whatever recent trip I have taken. It sounds like a lot, but I have it down to an art. I also have a shit-ton of clothes, so much that I really only need to do laundry about once a month, so these piles can get pretty big. Then one day, the guilt over my neat-freak husband having to deal with my clothing wreck overtakes me, and I do 18 loads of laundry, fold it all, and put it away. This is probably not the sign of a decent housewife.

Did you catch my mention of my neat-freak husband? My husband is a neat freak. And because he works all day and I pretty much do nothing except bitch online to my other unemployed friends, I feel guilty if the house isn’t spotless. It’s rarely spotless, which means I’m usually feeling guilty. Not guilty enough to clean, but guilty enough to spend hours a day trying to think of something I can do from home to make money to feel slightly less guilty. So far I haven’t had a decent brain wave about the whole situation, so instead I’m here.

It’s not that there’s anything wrong with being a housewife, per say. It’s just that I wanted a nice office job, M-F, 8-5, etc etc. I realize it sounds mind-numbingly boring, but I have low standards. After this nice long rant, I’m not sure what I’m going to write about on here, since my life basically consists of avoiding housework, avoiding cooking dinner (are you sensing a trend here), and generally screwing around on the internet feeling guilty about aforementioned avoidance, but there you are.