I honestly thought I wouldn't make it this far this week. Hubby left town on Sunday night and we have had sickness, ice storms, snow storms and a plague of frogs since then. Next door's idiot maintenance man was snow-blowing at 3.45am, then my two sons decided they needed to sleep with me (for the first time ever) both on the same night. One breathes very loudly and the other has very sharp toe nails.
I currently can't drive anywhere as the cars are stuck in the garage. Although we live in the city, our alley has two frozen grooves where car tires/tyres fit, but you have to jump your vehicle over a foot high ice mound to get into these grooves. I gave up yesterday when my son became alarmed at the smell of burning rubber. (I just assumed that with all the snow and below freezing temps, nothing would burst into flames!)
The kids' school is two blocks away and we have an extortionate corner shop within fifty yards, so we'll be okay.
If I hadn't made it however, I was going to post another very apt poem, but first a word about all that. A few weeks ago I posted a poem about socks, written by Wendy Cope. I stupidly didn't realise this is not on, and furthermore it drives Wendy Cope insane. She wrote an article in the Guardian last December entitled "You Like my Poems; So Pay for them". (Eek) I have therefore taken it down.
The poem I currently have in mind is by "Anonymous" therefore she won't mind if I share it with you.
On A Tired Housewife
Here lies a poor woman who was always tired,
She lived in a house where help wasn't hired (well, hardly any)
Her last words on Earth were "Dear friends I am going
To where there's no cooking, or washing, or sewing,
For everything there is exact to my wishes,
For where they dont' eat there's no washing of dishes.
I'll be where loud anthems will always be ringing,
But having no voice I'll be quit of the singing.
Don't mourn for me now, don't mourn for me never,
I am going to do nothing for ever and ever".
Rather apt for many I think!