On Accomplishment, Bleach, and Nude Self-Portraits

I am a domestic powerhouse. I am a household goddess. South Asian families should put statues of me over the stove, such are the scope and majesty of my house-cleaning, errand-running, laundry-doing, grocery-shopping skills. I will put it to you thusly: In the past 24 hours, I have ironed ten shirts, washed, dried, and folded three loads of laundry, grocery shopped with both thrift and verve at two entirely separate stores, got the oil changed in my car, got the rust stains out of my favorite skirt, planned meals for the week, and bought a copy of Jaws. Ha.

I was going to follow this up a sort of guilty rumination on my basically acquisitive nature (IKEA calls me Customer Zero) and how I feel that I should be devoting my time to hipper and more meaningful pursuits than buying sesame oil and bleaching shirts, like creating a one-woman show (not bloody likely) or taking ironic nude photos of myself by the dishwasher (almost unbelievably not bloody likely), but then, in the course of this incredibly long sentence, I decided that the sense of pride I get from efficiently, creatively, and attractively accomplishing the tasks that keep Mark and I functioning as responsible Western-world adults isn't anything that I needed to beat myself up about. Pillars of the avant-garde like throw pillows and clean pants too.

Next entry: Comic books and movies that aren't about abortion.