We’re talking about our aspirations again. Okay, you're not. You're reading this. I'm talking about aspirations again.
For those of you unfamiliar with it, I invented a term called the Asp-Gap ™. Basically, it’s the gap between who you want to be in life, and who you really are.
We’re about to buy a house, and I’m Asp-Gapping ™ myself stupid.
The kitchen in this house is so warm and inviting. I envision myself somehow magically knowing how to cook, so that I can linger there, while the children play quietly two stories above me. Splendiferous wafts of cookie and stews (like either of my kids would eat stew) and baked chicken flow up to the kiddies playing in their rooms.
The children have their own rooms. The children have their own floor!
Viva la East Atlantic region’s massive houses! We have almost no furniture, but we will soon have a beautiful, big house. What the hell are we going to put in it?
I have dreams and fantasies about the house and how my family and I will live in it. But a new house doesn’t mean a new life. It does, however, mean a fresh start. I’m all for those. Big fan.
The woman who’s selling us her house is lovely, kind, and has more good taste in her pinky finger than my husband and I do in our entire bodies. I wish she would just leave the furniture, but that’s totally tacky and as I told the kids at the house showing, “Don’t touch anything, it’s not ours.”
But hopefully, in another six weeks or so, the house, at least, will be ours.
And I will have my work cut out for me.
I’ll try to bridge the gap somehow.
And the Oscar Goes to. . . .Yawn
2 years ago
Just make sure that the cookies don't fall INTO the stew. Also, a cookie story: My mother is not culinarily inclined, but one day she read an article in Consumer Reports about how Betty Crocker (or someone) cookie mix was incredibly easy. She speculated aloud that she would try it. I scoffed. She said she would. I scoffed again. Finally, we reached a bargain: If I came home with straight A's, she would make the cookies. I didn't really expect to come home with straight A's, but lo and behold, I did. I held her to her promise. She complied, popping the "foolproof" Betty Crocker mix into the oven. However many minutes later, she retrieved the batch. The foolproof cookies had congealed into a semi-cooked mass of dough and chocolate chunks, which had to be eaten with a spoon. So, y'know, all your fans await your first kitchen dispatch.
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