So this weekend the husband and I went on an outing to St. Michaels, MD with our other married-without-children-couple friends to eat crabs. (For anyone who lives in the DMV, you know it ain't summer till you've had some crabs!) And yes I know we could have just gone down to the Wharf instead of taking a two-hour trip to the Eastern Shore, but what fun is there in doing the obvious?
The plan was devised and confirmed mid-week. We were to meet at our house at 10:30am and then hit the road in order to arrive for our 1:00 reservation. And all I had to do was to clean my living room, dining room, the stairs, the upstairs hallway and the bathroom.
The pressure to get all of this done, and the laundry, and wash my hair, and do a bunch of other stuff by Saturday morning was enormous. So of course, as you probably guessed, I panicked...and punked out. I had the husband call the night before to change the meeting location to their house which was 20 minutes in the opposite direction.
(And in case you were wondering, the only task completed on that to-do list was washing my hair, and I barely finished that on time. Thank goodness for floppy hats!)
Compared to them, the husband and I live as savages. Their house is ALWAYS immaculate and orderly with nothing ever out of place. I could drop by on any random day of the week at five in the morning and I have no doubt that their house would look picture perfect just like one of the homes you see in those upscale decorating magazines.
On the other hand with our house, there are no complimentary adjectives, but let's just say that if I got nominated for an episode of Clean House I would hardly be in a position to object...
My sudden case of the Oh-Lord-what-will-they-think-of-me-if-they-see-this-mess-itis provided a certain amount of comic relief and as I laughed at the ridiculousness of it, the truth is that my constant hot messiness is not just a punch line to the joke about why people are never invited over to my house. I have issues. My life is chaotic. I would prefer to speak to the Student loan sharks than to clean up my house. I tell myself that it is totally ok to keep visitors standing outside on my front lawn--how else would they get to admire the hippie landscaper's handiwork?
More truth: every true Busy Black Woman possesses at least one imperceptible flaw. The Oprah, our great BBW High Priestess, is kind of over the top in her exuberance for giving away stuff that only she can afford. Martha Stewart, another noteworthy BBW High Priestess, is just a little too perfect (because really, does anyone believe that she sits around crafting and cooking?) Even the great Claire Huxtable, our favorite TV mom, was an over-bearing smarty-pants. Yet, we still admire them and every other living or dearly departed BBW Patron Saint/Warrior Woman/Guardian Angel/Mother Superior/Guiding Light. They're only human after all...
So what if my flaws are a little more visible and slightly more neurotic? Is the Venus de Milo anything less than a masterpiece even without her arms?