Fear regret more than rejection.

I think this is priceless: URL: Harper Rose’s Five Month Status Report

I adore this blog; I aspire to her greatness. Long blog Fluid Pudding.

When my daughter was five or so, she was invited to her friend Dallas’s birthday party. Dallas was a preschool friend, and there was much excitement about the upcoming party. When we arrived, the first thing I noticed was that it appeared the Hell’s Angels had been invited as well.

There were about 20 Harley Davidson motorcycles in the driveway and the yard. Apparently grandpa is a biker. We met grandpa, and the rest of the gang (leather chaps, anyone?) on our way into the party. I stood chatting with the mom for a bit, and it was clear this was one of those “drop and run” parties, my daughter’s first, where the parents were expected to clear out and return at an appointed time. In the middle of our chat, another little girl ran through the house to the yard where the rest of the kids were playing. The mom called out, (I kid you not) “Dallas! Dakota’s here!” I snickered. Out loud. It just happened. The mom sheepishly said it must have been a year for vacations, or something to that effect.

I made my escape and returned in much less time than I was supposed to (there were bikers! and people smoking and drinking! and people who name their kids after destinations!) to retrieve my little one. She came willingly away, and in the car, we had this conversation:

Me: “How was the party?”
D: “Fine”
Me: “What did you eat?”
D: “Cake and sandwiches”
Me: “What kind of sandwiches?”
D: “Mayonnaise”
Me: “That’s it? Just mayonnaise?”
D: “Yeah. I didn’t like it”
Me: “Wanna get some lunch?”

Side story to this: my daughter was a terribly picky eater at that time and invented what we came to call The White Trash Princess Sandwich. This specialty cannot be found in restaurants. It consists of ketchup on white bread with the crusts cut off. Disgusting.

Blogger’s note: Carmela, for whom I’ve blogged this story, is my very best friend (with the exception of my husband, of course.) This is Carmela with me (on the left) in our Heidi hairdos. But that’s another story, for another day.

From a whitepaper by Doug Bowers, Cooking Trends Echo Changing Roles of Women:

“A century ago, domestic labor took the equivalent of a full work week, mostly related to food.
According to a survey at the time, a typical women spent 44 hours a week preparing meals and cleaning up after them. Another 7 hours each went to cleaning and doing laundry. When child care was added in, women had little time left for leisure.”

Read the full article.

Here’s my math:
168 hours a week
-56 assuming I’m getting 8 hours of sleep a night
-40 in the office
- 3 freelance work
- 5 commuting
- 7 showering, getting dressed, doing hair, etc.
-15 eating meals
- 5 driving kids to and from extracurriculars
-1.5 church
- 5 laundry (I think)
- 5 cleaning and other household stuff
- 3 shopping (grocery and other)
- 7 meal preparation (not always cooking, as my kids will point out)

That leaves 15.5 hours a week for caring for kids, doctors’ appointments, haircuts, waiting in lines, reading, blogging, watching “Lost” and general goofing around.

So why do I feel like I’m out of time?