Wednesday, July 16, 2014

Confessions of a 30-Year-Old Housewife

I wrote this last week on my birthday, but my internet has been so awful for a week that I couldn't even upload it!

Okay, bear with me. I only have 21 minutes to write this post while I’m still technically 30 years old, so grammatical errors will occur. 

In true procrastinator fashion, with 20 minutes left of my career as a 30-year-old, I give you:

Confessions of a 30-Year-Old-Housewife

My kids are rocking the ‘summer schedule’ thing pretty hard. Aside from having to roll over to open Judah’s cereal bar, those kids know not to wake me up and to get their own breakfast if they can’t wait.

I don’t get personalized license plates. I don’t understand why you want people to know that you’re called ‘Nana’ and isn’t everyone a Husker fan? It’s beyond me.

18 minutes

Mountain Dew. Seriously, guys. It’s like the actual nectar of the gods. I know people like beer (although I can’t figure out why) and fancy people like wine (Bouquet? Palate? I watched Sideways so all I know is that it might be lame to like merlot) but give me the Dew. For real, go get me a Dew.

I have a shameless appreciation for the freckles on my face and arms. I love when I get a little sun in the spring and those freckles start to reappear. Who doesn’t look better with freckles? Now if only the sun didn’t make my mustache-like discoloration worse…

14 minutes

I have realized I like every single kind of music except heavy metal. I’m partial to sad songs and anything sung by Barbra Streisand, Harry Connick, Jr., Mumford & Sons and maaaaaybeee Garth Brooks, depending on the day.

Sometimes I will wash the same load of laundry three times because I keep forgetting it’s in the washer. One of the hazards of a basement laundry room?

I love my children, but I cannot for the life of me figure out what the crap to do with all their papers from school. I know each one is special to them, but seriously child. That’s a stick figure of a cat. Let it go already.

Nine minutes.

I want to write a book. I don’t think I would put this in here if I had more time to think about it, but that clock is ticking and I’m gonna be 31 soon. Mr. Bug has even come up with an outline for me if I ever get my poop together and sit down and do it. So I really have no excuse.

Jillian Michaels is on my list of ‘People Who Might Be The AntiChrist.’ 

I hate Anne Hathaway. Not many people do, but I seriously do not like watching her ‘act’ in anything. Every time the girls want to watch The Princess Diaries I die inside a little bit more.

I have never tried hummus. There was a chain email when I was in high school that compared hummus to poop and I’ve never been able to get past that.

Five minutes.

Most of the time I feel like I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing. Seriously. Almost all of the time. And almost no idea.

If I ever meet Nick Nolte, I think I’ll give him a hug. I know he’s probably not a good guy and I actually hate hugs, but he really should have won an Oscar for Warrior. That was not cool, Academy.

Two minutes. 

I have zero anxiety about getting older. Turning 30 didn’t faze me at all and I’m feeling good about 31. Young at heart? I don’t know. 

Aaaaaaaannnnnnd NOW I’m 31! Hopefully next year I won’t wait this long to write my Confessions. 

Thanks for reading!

Read Confessions of a 28-Year-Old Housewife here
Read Confessions of a 29-Year-Old Housewife here