This is indeed my confession.
And yes, I'd better tell it, better tell it all. And yes, I damn near cried, cried when I got that - no, OK, I'll stop.
But truth, let's get things straight right off the bat: I am nobody's wife [yet].
However, I am [apparently] vain - my use of brackets around the term 'yet' might indicate to some that there's a gentleman or heck - a lady waiting in the wings to agree to tend me the rest of my life.
There's not.
Yet.
See, while a rapidly-approaching-thirty spinster, I have the optimism of a brace-faced A-cupper (something I actually know little about what with ample genetics, etc.).
Nonetheless, I am a lazy wife. I will be a lazy wife. I need my own lazy wife.
Born to a family that wasn't interested in supporting the lifestyle I wish I'd become accustomed to I learned proper floor sweeping techniques, the wonders of bleach, and how to start dinner before my parents came home. Yes, in their infinite wisdom my family and the fates conspired to teach me the ways of self sufficient housekeeping.
Luckily, growing up in sax-man Clinton's sitcom 90's I became adept at such nouveau conventions as half-assing a room-cleaning, leaving just enough dishes scattered around the house to avoid parental directives, and a penchant for speed-baking from oh so handy cardboard box cake mixes.
Shake and serve on the rocks: The Lazy [wannabe] Wife.
So, I come to you with a love of through cleaning... and a sense of boredom halfway through. Expect me to show you food that is prettier than yours, original clutter re-shuffling ideas, and the occasional figurative face plant (see: 'pesto soup fail' or 'why Nigella is famous and I'm not'). I sew. I craft. I cook. I entertain. I never break a sweat. I recommend clinical strength deodorant.
Let's keep home... half-assedly together.
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